


In My Life

by Mademoiselle_Kitty



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Hamburg Era, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mademoiselle_Kitty/pseuds/Mademoiselle_Kitty
Summary: It's 1988 and Paul relives some of the adventures from his youth. Will he be able to keep his secret, or is it time to come clean?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Revised and re-uploaded after a short break from the fandom.
> 
> Originally published between 18 July 2015 and 24 October 2015 under my old username Macca4Ever (Ive_Just_Seen_A_Face).
> 
> Please note that chapters 3-9 have not yet been updated and/or fixed. Will do at a later time. For now, I hope the original version is alright with you!
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos and comments keep my muse alive <3

8 September 1988

  
  
Paul heaved a deep sigh as he flopped onto the sofa after a long, exhausting day. He lazily kicked off his shoes and tugged at the bright blue T-shirt he was wearing; untucking it enough to breathe more freely, but not quite enough to expose his abdomen. The last thing he needed was for the kids to not-so-politely comment on his ageing figure. As he proceeded to make himself comfortable, events of the day played through his head as if he was watching a rerun on the telly.  
  
Evaluating his public performances was normal for Paul; even after having lived in the spotlights for nearly 30 years straight, he still felt self-conscious about how people perceived him. After all those years, he still feared people wouldn't like him, wouldn't like his work, wouldn't want to work with him. On one hand, he knew it was silly to be that insecure after everything he achieved. On the other hand, he simply couldn't wrap his head around it all, still thinking of himself as that cheeky bloke from Liddypool.  
  
Him and me, that was a distinction he learnt to make very early on. Without it, he knew for sure he would have lost his sanity long ago. People didn't always understand or appreciate how he could be Paulie the Scouser one moment, and Macca the entertainer the next, morphing from one persona into the other in the blink of an eye. It was almost like pulling on a jumper. It was his armour, his coping mechanism. But underneath the 'thumbs aloft' visage, the self-doubt never went away completely, save perhaps when he was on stage, playing his heart out for the fans.  
  
Interviews in particular still had an impact on him. Usually, he would get asked the same unoriginal questions, to which he had a stock answer. He always made sure to show that Beatle charm they had come to expect of him, cracking a joke and flashing a wink here and there to satisfy the audience. As boring as those samey interviews were at times, he was very careful not to show exasperation at the lack of ingenuity, no matter how difficult it could be to feign genuine interest at times.   
  
Every now and then, a new question or topic would come up, something he hadn't been asked a million times before, requiring Paul to think on his feet in order to produce a good answer without allowing too much insight into his real, private self. He always relived those, analysing them, making sure he hadn't said anything stupid or too controversial. The last thing he wanted was to provide the media with ammunition to shoot him down like they always seemed so keen on doing.  
  
Paul rubbed his eyes sluggishly. Earlier that day, Rona Elliot had interviewed him, about some book someone published about John. Paul couldn't really remember the author's name, nor did he care all that much. Something with an A, he thought, not bothered to try and recall the rest. He mentioned the name in the interview, only to allow that small nugget of information to escape his mind immediately afterwards. It wasn't important, really. Most of the book had been rubbish anyway, which was hardly surprising given the sheer amount of bilge written about the Beatles. Yet, some of it wasn't very far from the truth at all. Unfortunately, the questions had been about the one thing he couldn't be honest about - wouldn't be honest about - to anyone.  
  
When the inevitable question about John was presented to him, he had felt very uneasy, knowing the David Frost show had a big audience and realising he had to be convincing in his act if he wanted to avoid suspicion. So he made very sure to ham it up, giving them a full dose of the 'cute Beatle' charm, hoping to extinguish any rumours the book might instigate. "If he was homosexual, I'd've thought he'd've made a pass at me in twenty years, darlin'!" Paul could hear himself saying it, his flamboyant hand gesture eliciting laughter from his interviewer.

He sure hoped it had been enough to hide the anxiety he had felt and that he wouldn't be confronted with the subject again. Paul wanted to take this particular secret to his grave, like John and he had sworn to do those many years ago. Another sigh escaped Paul, as he slowly drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

18 June 1960

"Happy birthday, Macca!"

Paul had barely opened the front door when John cried out his congratulations, pushing through the half-opened door into the hallway of 20 Forthlin Road. Before Paul could respond, he found himself breathing in the scent of leather and cigarettes as John locked him in a tight, bone-crushing hug, ignoring Paul's muffled "gerroff!"

"So, our kid's finally 18, eh? Took ye long enough!" 

He felt the words more than he'd heard them, John's grip on him so tight it made his ears ring and lights pop in front of his eyes. He pushed hard against his friend's chest, struggling to be released. "Ta mate, and I'd like to live long enough to enjoy the benefits if it's all the same to you," he gasped, flustered but highly amused by John's rough display of affection.

"Jim and Mike not home, then?" John inquired, crashing down on the empty settee. He conjured a pack of ciggies from his leather jacket and pulled out two, lighting them both at once and handing one to Paul, who positioned himself sideways in his dad's armchair, legs dangling lazily over the arm rest.

Paul took a long drag from the cigarette John offered him and shook his head as he slowly exhaled the warm smoke. "Figured you'd be geggin' in, didn't they? Bailed when they had the chance. Should've joined them, I reckon," he quipped in the thickest Scouse accent he could muster.

"Is right, man. The arl fella's right to swerve on a meff like meself!" For a moment, both boys tried to keep a straight face, only to fail miserably when their eyes met. The thought of how Jim and Mimi would react to murdering the Queen's English was enough to send them into a hysterical laughing fit.

When he was able to speak two words without giggling - he was too old for that sort of thing now anyway, he supposed - Paul explained: "they're visiting me auntie on the Wirral."

"What, today?"

"Sure, why not," Paul shrugged, failing to see the problem. He supposed he could tell John he'd been asked pretty much the same question by his father when he announced he wouldn't be coming along because he didn't want to miss band practice. Not wanting to waste too many words on the matter, he repeated the same logic he'd used on his father a few hours earlier. "The big party isn't until tomorrow anyway. Some people have jobs on Saturday, you know."

John seemed happy enough to accept that. He didn't seem to mind either way, in any case. " Suppose they do, don't they."

"Right. They won't be back until tomorrow either, so we've got the house to ourselves," Paul explained, perfectly content to leave it at that. He nudged his foot in the direction of John's guitar case, which he'd casually propped up against the piano. "How about you and me write another Lennon-McCartney original today, eh Johnny? Might be our first number one, you know."

"Yeah, that'll happen," John snorted, flashing one of his big, clownish smirks to indicate he was only joking. 

They finished their smokes, and armed with pen and paper, a stack of butties and some bottles of ale, they started bouncing ideas back and forth, guitars at the ready. Time had flown by, and even though they spent more time larking about than they actually did writing, they'd all but finished a song they felt particularly good about when Paul suddenly noticed John had grown silent.

He looked up to find John staring at him intently from behind his specs. "Sack it la', yer makin' me blush," Paul quipped, pulling a face and giving John ample opportunity for one of his razor-sharp comebacks. To his bemusement, none came. The way John looked at him felt slightly uncomfortable. It was almost as if he was trying to look through Paul, which in and of itself wasn't unusual, but the intensity of it was a bit unnerving this time 'round. It made him feel sort of naked. "What are you looking at me like that for, mate?"

"Was looking at yer eyes," John elaborated in a matter-of-fact tone, "wonderin' how they change colour like that."

Paul knitted his eyebrows together in utter confusion. Was he taking the piss? They'd known each other what - three years now? A bit strange to suddenly make a fuss about something stupid like that now, he reckoned. He blinked several times, not sure how to respond. "Are you having me on, mate? 'S not nice to fuck with me like that on me birthday, y'know." He'd meant his last words as a joke, hoping to break the awkward atmosphere that had started to make the back of his neck feel hot despite the uncommonly chilly weather.

John shook his head slowly. "No man, 'm serious. They're brown one moment and green the next. Never really noticed before. Thought I was going barmy at first, but they really do change colour. How do you do that?"

"Well, I don't know, Johnny. 'S not something I can control, y'know." Paul shook his head in disbelief, grinning. "And the thing is, you can't go barmy, 'cause you already are! Seriously John, what's gotten into ye? Come on, ya nancy. We've got a song to finish!" For a split second, Paul thought he saw something dark and ominous flash in John's eyes, but he wasn't sure if he actually saw it or was simply imagining things. Best not pay it any mind, he decided, knowing all too well how quickly John's moods could change. He shook his head and turned his attention to his guitar.

Minutes later, Paul caught himself chewing his bottom lip and wondering what could possibly be the cause of John's peculiar mood. It definitely wasn't John-like behaviour to lose himself in something as trivial as the colour of someone's eyes. Most of the time, he didn't even know which eye colour the girl he last shagged had - it had taken him nearly a year to catch on that Cyn's were brown, and not blue like he'd tell everyone - so why should he be bothered about Paul's? After mulling it over for a few moments, he shrugged it off and focused once again on the song they were composing. It was going to be a cracker - if they ever managed to focus long enough to finish it.

Band practice was at Paul's that night, or at least that had been the plan. John was completely back to his usual antics, cracking jokes and making Paul, George, and Stu lose their focus whenever they so much as attempted to play some songs. Even tuning their guitars had taken four times as long as usual, thanks to John deliberately messing up the tuning on his. The abundant alcohol consumption didn't much help them get anything done either, so they eventually forgot about practice altogether and simply sat around, playing records on Jim's gramophone, talking, and generally just mucking about. It was nearly half one when George and Stuart had gone home, swaggering drunkenly to the bus stop, belting out a slurred rendition of 'Happy Birthday', featuring some new lyrics that weren't entirely savoury. When Paul arrived back in the sitting room, John was sat at the piano, playing a gentle melody, very unlike the rock 'n' roll songs he usually preferred.

"S really nice, that is," Paul offered, leaning against the mantelpiece and watching his friend play. John hummed in reply, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Paul stifled a yawn and slid down onto the floor, pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around his shins. 

He noticed John's carefully constructed pompadour had started to sag considerably, several wayward auburn curls now covering his forehead. His cheeks and ears had taken on the rosy colour of someone either very drunk or very tired, and his overall appearance was more peaceful than most people ever got to see Teddy boy Lennon. His eyes were all but closed as he let his hands find the notes on their own accord. Paul had always been more than a little envious of how well John could play the piano. He could play too, but nowhere near as well as his friend or at least, he didn't think so. It dawned on Paul that he was now watching John very much the same way he himself had been observed earlier, and the notion made him grin. Whatever had been up with John, it appeared to be contagious.

An impressive yawn, followed by a violent shudder interrupted John's playing. "You sleeping here, then?" Paul asked, rubbing his heavy eyelids. 

John nodded and closed the piano lid. "Might as well; Mimi'll have me hide if I show up this late." 

Paul hadn't really expected any other answer. They often stayed the night at each other's houses after practice, sharing a pillow and whispering for hours about their music and how they were going to conquer the world until one of them inevitably fell asleep. 

That night was no different; after casually tossing their clothes on the chair in the corner of Paul's room and freshening up, they made themselves as comfortable as possible in the limited space of the single bed, their noses nearly touching as they nattered about their latest masterpiece. Eventually, Paul had been in the middle of explaining why the chords of their new tune ought to be F-A7-Em-Dm7, rather than G-Em-C-D when he fell asleep.

***

It couldn't have been very much later when Paul woke up. The room was dark and quiet; even the blackbirds were dead silent, telling Paul it must still be the middle of the night. He wondered what could have roused him. Normally, he'd sleep like the dead after having a few, so there must have been something. or he wouldn't have awoken.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and his surroundings came into focus, he nearly jumped when his brain registered a glint right in front of his face. John was lying close - very close. Paul felt his friend's warm breath on his face, could smell the subtle mixture of beer, tobacco, and toothpaste. And John... was staring at him - again.

"John! Bloody hell, you scared me half to death!" The words came out a lot sharper than intended, and Paul winced at the sound of them. Reeling it in a bit, he added, "what are you doing, Johnny?"

"What's it look like I'm doing, Macca? I'm looking at you, aren't I?" There was something in John's voice Paul couldn't quite identify. He hadn't sounded unpleasant at all - quite the contrary - but it made him curious to find out what John was thinking. He was pulled from his short reverie when John spoke again. "Anyroad, thought you were watching me first, really. You were sleeping with your eyes open, you know that?"

"I did not!" Paul huffed indignantly. "You taking the piss, Lennon?"

"Did too," John countered. "You wouldn't accuse yer best mate of lying now, would ye?" He batted his eyelashes frantically, making Paul giggle rather girlishly. Then they fell silent, their faces relaxed once more, though something was stirring in the back of Paul's head whilst John just kept his eyes on him, apparently unable or unwilling to look anywhere else. 

Paul knew John had the tendency to change moods every few minutes, but this behaviour was strange even for him. He didn't normally go from brooding to joking in seconds flat, and Paul wondered what was going on in John's head. Whatever it was, it created a weird atmosphere which was amplified by the way their bodies so very close together. He was used to lying close to John by now; it wasn't uncommon for whoever slept against the wall to place an arm around the other's waist to keep him from falling out of the narrow bed. Therefore, the warm weight of John's arm around him wasn't alien to Paul.

But somehow, it was different now. There was a tension in the air which wasn't normally there. Paul didn't quite know what to make of it. All he knew was he couldn't bring himself to break eye contact with John, not even when he vaguely registered that John was bringing his face even closer to his own. Somewhere in the back of his head, Paul sensed what was coming, even if he didn't understand why and to his astonishment, he didn't seem able to do anything about it. When their lips touched, his eyes fluttered closed, his breathing now rapid. Paul's instinctive reaction was to match John's touch, their lips grazing and nipping gently for several seconds until the reality of the situation struck him like lightning and he broke the kiss.

Paul's heart pummelled against his rib cage as if it was trying to break out of his chest. What in the bloody hell had just happened? Well, that was obvious: his best friend had just kissed him - but why? His mind immediately tried to put things into perspective. Surely, John was drunk off his arse and probably hardly knew what he was doing. And as blind as he was without his glasses, he may as well have mistaken Paul for a bird. After all, he never missed an opportunity to tell Paul he looked like one.

But that didn't add up, as they had been talking just before it happened, and John didn't seem all that drunk really - definitely not as affected by the alcohol as Paul was. So why would he want to kiss him? Was he just havin' him on? Then why wasn't he laughing? If it was a joke, it certainly didn't feel like one; it had been way too tender to simply be for a laugh. 

Surely, John wasn't... He couldn't be - could he? He had Cyn, not to mention a bird in his lap whenever he felt like it. And Paul wasn't into blokes either. But... Why had he allowed it to happen, then? He'd kissed back; what was that all about? Paul was dead sure he wasn't.... well, that. He'd been with Dot for a while now, and everyone - John most of all - knew he shagged random girls just as much as John did. Paul found himself chewing his bottom lip for the second time in less than twelve hours. Still slightly shell-shocked, he heard himself speak.

"What was that about, John? Is this one of your jokes?" At that, he could feel John lapsing into one of his angry moods, and Paul knew he'd said the wrong thing. He didn't know what the right comeback would have been, but it obviously wasn't that. Though still lying very closely together, Paul could almost feel the temperature in the room turn Baltic, telling him that whatever that kiss was, it was most definitely not meant as a joke.

"It was nothing, alright? Nothing happened, forget about it!" John barked, as he pushed himself back, struggling to turn around in the tiny space between the wall and Paul's body. He shrugged violently against the comforting hand Paul instinctively placed on his shoulder. "Piss off, Macca!"

Despite the alarm bells going off in his head, and the little voice screaming for him to shut his fucking gob, Paul pressed on, unable to stop the words from spilling over his lips. "John, please talk to me. What's wrong, mate? Are.. are you, y'know..." 

Paul felt himself cringe, unable to say that one word, afraid of the consequences involved with saying it aloud. "Because if you are, that's okay, y'know. Wouldn't make a difference to me..." Did he sound condescending? He hadn't meant to, but now he wasn't sure. Paul drew in a slightly quavering breath, holding it in anticipation of the reply he suspected would likely wake half of Allerton.

John didn't yell. If only he had, that would have been easier than the venomous tone is voice harboured as he spoke. "You can say queer, Paul. That's what you mean, isn't it? Poor old Lennon, queer for his pretty little friend. Well, don't flatter yerself mate, because I'm not. You may look like a bird, but I can still tell a cock from a cunt, I'll have you know. Now kindly shut yer gob before I do it for ye."

And with that, the conversation was over. John could've been at the other end of the world and he'd still be closer to Paul than he was now. His feigned sleep was very obvious, his breathing too superficial and audible to convince Paul. Still, the message was clear: do not trespass. 

Paul just lay there, realising he'd fucked up. Really done it this time. If only he'd have shut up, or found a way to defuse the tension. He was always so good at finding the right words to calm John down; why had his wit failed him now? It was only a kiss, for fuck's sake, and a drunken one at that. Barely worthy of the name, what with the whole thing having been so quick, and so chaste. It shouldn't have started a row, should it? It was only a little thing, really, so why had it turned into this dramatic event? 

After a few minutes of staring at the back of John's head and mentally chastising himself, Paul felt a tell-tale tickle in the back of his throat and eyes. Just what he needed; something else to get on John's nerves. Not wanting to escalate the situation even further, he carefully rolled away from John, trying to cause as little a disturbance as possible as he got up. Moments later, he slipped into Mike's cold bed, impatiently wiping the tears from his eyes. 

They'd had their share of rows before, he and John, but this was different. This time, he feared he just may have lost his best mate. "Happy fucking birthday to me," he groaned before finally drifting off into restless dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's gotten yer knickers in a wad, Paul? Ye've been off the trolley fer weeks!" George's outburst tore Paul out of his daydream. It was the beginning of July, and the school year was just about finished. Not that George and Paul were at the Inny much anymore; the Silver Beetles were a proper performing band now and played two gigs a week: Wirral on Thursdays and Wallasey on Saturdays. They had started out trying to combine school and performing, but that had become too demanding so they only went to school the first half of the week, and were considering abandoning their education completely – already would have if they hadn't been dreading their parents' wrath. It was a lovely day, so George and Paul had made a beeline for the most secluded spot of the courtyard, where they unscrupulously used their upper student status and reputation as 'professional like, proper' musicians to chase some younger boys from the spot they coveted.

Soon, their blazers lay forgotten on the ground, and they smoked lazily, looking very casual and rebellious – or so they saw themselves – with their school ties loosened, sleeves rolled up above their elbows, and their shirts untucked and partially unbuttoned. Had a member of staff walked by their hiding place, they most likely would have received detentions for skiving, as well as for violating school dress policy. Of course, despite their carefully styled Teddy quiffs and rule-defying state of undress, it was still glaringly obvious they were wearing school uniforms, which severely compromised their bad boy image. Lower students may have been impressed by them, someone like John wouldn't hesitate to remind them they were mere lads who very much looked the part. Paul had closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, allowing the sun to warm his face. For the umpteenth time, recent events repeated themselves in his mind.

The morning after his birthday, Paul had woken up feeling terribly hungover; and it wasn't just because he'd gotten pissed. John had been gone by the time Paul managed to drag himself out of bed, and he had been carefully avoiding him since. They first saw each other again at their Thursday gig, which had been particularly tense. John had arrived exactly at the agreed upon time, and had buggered off the moment they finished, mumbling something about Mimi expecting him home. During the performance, he had made quite a show of acting normal, whilst very skilfully coming up with ways to avoid direct interaction with Paul. The other lads didn't appear to pick up on it much, but it was glaringly obvious to Paul. He had bitten his tongue and played the game equally as convincing as John, hoping their push-me-pull-you strategy wouldn't ruin their chances of working things out. So far, John hadn't shown any sign of wanting to talk about what happened, so Paul focused on George, or at least attempted to. Going by his younger friend's tone of voice, he had been failing miserably.

"I'm sorry, Geo. Just a bit knackered, is all. Bit of an 'eadache, y'know. 'M fine, really." He mustered a smile, hoping it would be convincing. But by the way George's dark brown eyes darkened to nearly black, and the clenching of his jaw, Paul knew he'd have to do better if he didn't want to end up on his todd. Eventually, he threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat, knowing George would be quite content to stare daggers at Paul until he received a satisfying answer. "Alright man, you win. John and I've had a barney, and he's been swervin' on me since. It's been a drag! Now sack it with the starin', alright?"

Finally, George looked away, redirecting his attention to his cigarette. He took a long drag and held his breath a few seconds before carefully exhaling. "Yeah, I reckoned it'd be something like that," he muttered. "Did something happen on yer birthday, then? John seemed a bit mingy to me. Thought he was getting' the lurgy, I'm tellin' ye. Didn't though, did he? Been dead shirty he has, trying too 'ard to act normal, like."

Paul felt a jolt of surprise at that declaration. He didn't think anyone, least of all George, had caught on; didn't think anyone was able to read John and him like they always read each other. He should stop underestimating George, he tried to tell himself. Nothing ever did seem to escape his attention. Still waters, 'n dat. His gaze followed the trajectory of the stub of George's bifter as it got flicked away. "You can talk to me y'know, Paul. I'm yer mate too, remember?"

"Yeah, of course you are, Geo!" Paul's smile was genuine this time. "'S just that I'm not really sure what happened, y'know? 'M tellin' ye, mate; it's been doin' me 'ead in." Though this wasn't entirely true, Paul simply couldn't tell what really happened; not without speaking to John first. To his relief, George seemed content to accept Paul's reply this time. If he noticed Paul wasn't totally straight-from-the-shoulder, he wasn't showing it, and that made Paul immediately feel much better. "Ta, mate," he said, as he gently nudged his shoulder against George's. He had the feeling something big was about to come crashing down upon them, and knowing he'd have a friend around if and when that happened meant the world to Paul.

The 'something big' Paul had anticipated did indeed come crashing down in the first week of August.

Paul enjoyed the Friday mornings after a gig. The house would usually be empty, allowing him to have a lie-in and go about his business without having to entertain anyone – particularly Mike, who somehow appeared to be under the impression he was going to become the drummer in the band. The McCartney brothers were thick as thieves and Mike got along great with the lads, but it was quite obvious to Paul that his baby brother would never be asked to join.

He was having a particularly lazy day; it was half noon and he was still in his pyjamas and quite content to stay that way a little longer. He was sat on the sitting room floor, halfway through cleaning and restringing his guitar when the doorbell rang utterly unexpectedly, causing Paul to jump and knock over the bottle of lemon oil, which was all that was needed to blow the lid off the simmering frustrations that had gradually been building up in the previous weeks. He shot off into a loud and elaborate series of curses as he tried to practice damage control.

The bell rang a second time, more urgently now, so Paul forced himself away from the mess on the floor and shuffled into the hallway, thinking that whoever chose this moment to come calling, certainly needed to work on their timing. He pulled the door open and just froze on the spot.

"Alright, la'? Yer lookin' like a right meff, mate. Miss me that much, did ye? Anyroad, can I come in or d'ye want me to do one?"

"John... yeah, come'ead," he stammered, aware of how stupid he sounded. He turned on his heels and made for the sitting room, where he proceeded to clean the last of the spilled oil off the rug, using the momentary distraction to regain some composure.

"Hmmm, smells lemony." John had claimed his favourite spot on the sofa, and was now looking at what Paul was doing. "I hate to break it to ye mate, but that stuff is meant for fingerboards, not fer makin' the rug smell all nice like." When Paul refused to take the bait, John lit a ciggy and softened his expression. "Is that what caused that most charming display of profanity then? I thought you'd seen me coming and wanted me to bugger off, really." His casual banter failed to hide the subtle insecurity that told Paul John actually had expected to be told to leave.

He faced John and nodded in the general direction of the packet of bifters on the table. "Giz one then, la'." The two boys smoked in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped up in their own thoughts until Paul decided someone had to start talking if they were going to get anywhere and since John had been the one to take the first step, it was only fair that he, Paul, take the next. "I don't know what brought you here John, but I'm glad to see you. I've missed you, mate."

John inclined his head. "Missed you too, Paul." He seemed at odds with himself for a moment, then started to talk. "I'm sorry Macca, I've been a right git. Should've talked to ye when I had the chance, don't know why I didn't, to be honest. I've been dead shirty with ye, when ye didn't do anything wrong. What can I say, I'm an 'eadcase."

Paul failed to suppress a chuckle. "Is right John, ye really are! Look, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it. I just want us to be okay, y'know? Yer me best mate, 'n dat."

"Ta la', the feelin's mutual. I really am sorry, alright? Don't think I can talk about it yet, though. Maybe after we get back from Germany..." His tone had been very casual and at first, Paul didn't catch on. Then, he saw the winkle in John's eyes and the last of his words sunk in.

"Ye wha? Who's going to Germany?"

Unable to restrain his enthusiasm any longer, John blurted out, "Well, we are, aren't we? that is, the Silver Beetles, who'd ye think I was talking about, me arl fella? We've been booked to play at some club in Hamburg. We're leavin' on the sixteenth and we're set fer a couple o' months!"

For a brief moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, as if someone had given them a cue, they jumped up and engaged in a frantic sort of dance, jumping around the sitting room, exchanging playful punches, cheering, and laughing like jackals, all tension forgotten and all hurt forgiven. Eventually, they settled down long enough for Paul to wrap an arm around John's shoulder.

"Where are we going, Johnny?"

"To the top!"

"And where's that?"

"The toppermost of the poppermost!"


	4. Chapter 4

Whatever Paul had imagined the toppermost of the poppermost to look like, this wasn't it and by the look on George's face, the Benjamin of the band thought exactly the same thing.

Their journey had been very long and demanding. Ten people in one van had bore a striking resemblance to one of those sketches on the box, where they'd fit a large number of clowns into a small car. Except they weren't trying to fit inside for a laugh; they were driving from Liverpool to Harwich via London, and then through the Netherlands to Hamburg. The fun had worn off before they even reached Woollyback territory. The van didn't even have enough seats, so they were forced to sit on their amps, squeezed tightly together. They spent most of the bumpy ride struggling to keep their balance.

They endured by telling themselves it would all be worth it once they arrived at their destination. Saying the reality was a tad disappointing was a gross understatement. They were incredibly excited when they reached Hamburg, it all looked so foreign and impressive. Finding the Indra club was a challenge, and when they did reach it, they really felt out of sorts. John, Stuart, George, Pete and Paul were still knackered from the long journey when they took the unfamiliar stage. All of a sudden, they didn't feel all that tough anymore, so they stood huddled together throughout their show, managing little more than a lacklustre performance in front of the unimpressed audience consisting of a handful of prostitutes and their 'company'. When Paul saw his own doubts reflected back at him in George's eyes, he found himself wondering what they'd gotten themselves into.

Their sleeping quarters, if one could call it that, was a small, cold room with bare walls and two bunk beds in the back of some obscure cinema, or Kino as the Gerries called it. The place was little more than a storage room, nothing short of filthy, and situated adjacent to the loos. Still, it was better than not having a place to sleep at all. Since there were five of them and only four beds, they decided to take turns co-sleeping, which made for some hilarious moments. Top-and-tailing meant that every now and then, someone got kicked in the face in the middle of the night. John was the first to have the questionable honour.

"Bloody murder! Bloody murder!" John's dramatic scream tore the other four rudely from their slumbers. Stuart nearly jumped out of his skin and managed to just barely prevent falling out of the top bunk above Pete. George stuck his head over the edge of his bed, looking blearily down at John and Paul. "Eeee, I was havin' such a good dream! What seems to be the problem, Johnny?"

John responded by grabbing Paul's ankle. He made a wild gesture, causing Paul's foot to flop about comically. "Macca tried to bash me 'ead in with this gnarly thing! I'm tellin' ye man, there's no getting' over this 'horrible attempt at me life!"

George jumped to the floor like a cat and positioned himself on the edge of the bottom bunk. He studied Paul's foot with an air of serious investigation. "Well, this does look rather fiendish," he said in an exaggerated posh accent. He poked at the offending appendage a bit, causing Paul to squirm, unable to free himself from John's tight grip. "I do declare the suspect is guilty of the alleged crime. Case closed."

Paul struggled to hold back the fit of laughter that was bubbling in his chest. "Fiendish? Really?" He placed the back of his hand to his forehead and flopped down in a dead faint, much like an actress on the silver screen. Pete and Stu hurried over in feigned concern, fanning Paul with their hands, who came out of his 'fainting spell' with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Y'know what's fiendish, Geo? Yer unibrow! I wouldn't be surprised it it's wanted for murder!" Laughter erupted around the room at that comment.

George swatted at Paul and his voice rose half an octave when he blurted, "'Ang on a mo'! I don' have a unibrow!" Another round of laughter bounced off the walls.

"Well, you sort of do, son," John chuckled, "but Paulie here can sub ye his tweezers an' teach ye ter make 'em all nice like." In response, Paul threw his jacket, which he used as a pillow, at John's face. "'Ar 'ey! I don't pluck me eyebrows! Yer just jealous of me good looks."

"Well, yer very pretty, Paulie. John casually popped Paul's jacket under his own pillow and took hold of his foot again. "Except yer feet. Dead grotty, those are." He cleared his throat and copied the posh accent George had used earlier, "Which brings us back to the topic at hand. Now that C.I. Harrison has concluded you're guilty, what shall we do for punishment? Any suggestion, fellows?"

Pete chimed in, "tickle 'im to death, I'd say." Stuart and George nodded in appreciation of the suggestion, and John cheered, "make it so, lads!" The condemned tried again in vain to break loose. Paul knew his friends would be relentless. "Nooo, anything but that," he pleaded, but his cries fell on deaf ears. By the time the band retreated to their respective beds, Paul was completely hoarse from the hysterical fits of laughter and gasping for breath.

Moments like that made their days in Hamburg a lot of fun, and they did enjoy their big adventure. It was just that the harsh reality of life on the strip grew on them faster than the bleak room in which they spent their quiet, more introspective hours, making their nights often depressing. Eventually, they sort of got used to washing themselves in the putrid smell of the ladies' bog, and they even learned to more or less block out the sounds of people pissing while they were trying to get some sleep after a long night on stage. They even managed to add a splash of colour to the otherwise bare room in the form of their Union Jacks, which they used as blankets. There hadn't been any linens to speak of and though the flags were very thin, meaning they were still freezing at night, the feeling of being wrapped in something from home made their hearts feel a lot warmer.

In spite of their initial disappointment, the lads soon embraced their new job. Egged on by the owner of the club, who'd yell at them to 'mach Schau', they put their best foot forward and before long, they had evolved into a tight act. By October, they had a huge repertoire of songs that they could play brilliantly. As word got out on the energy of their shows, they drew larger audiences and were regarded one of the better acts on the Reeperbahn. The lads were thrilled when they were moved to a place called Kaiserkeller, which had a dance floor, and waiters, and a bigger audience.

The bigger venue came at a price, they soon discovered. The rowdy audience was very demanding and violent, so the boys poured every bit of energy into their shows in order to keep the drunken servicemen happy. They were required to work much longer hours and even though the Beatles, as they had changed their name to, alternated sets with fellow Liverpudlians Rory Storm & the Hurricanes, they soon found themselves utterly knackered.

"Man, how do they do that?" Stu shook his head in amazement at the energy displayed by Rory and his band. The lads were on their break, and they were all slumped in their chairs, dreading their last set of the night. John raised his head from the table and groaned, "I don't know man, but I'll have what they're havin'. I'm too tired to even get up to go to the fuckin' loo." Grunts of agreement could be heard from several of the band members.

A waiter appeared at their table, "Here are your beers, boys," he beamed. Pete managed a "Ta, mate," before downing half his pint in one go. He put down his glass and looked up at the waiter, who was still standing next to them. "What is it, Otto?" Otto moved in a little closer and spoke quietly, "You boys are tired, no? I have something that helps you. Make you play longer." He showed them some pills, and continued, "You take one, you play all night. Easy."

The lads exchanged glances, and John picked up one of the pills. He gestured his head towards the stage, "Is that what they're takin'?" When Otto nodded, John slowly raised the pill to his mouth, only to be stopped by Paul. "Hang on, John. Ye don't even know what's in these pills, mate. Maybe we shouldn't take the risk."

"It's okay, all the bands take the Prellies," Otto interjected. He looked amused at Paul's reaction. "You can take one, it is safe. It helps. Trust me, I am your friend." That obviously was all John needed to hear, and he quickly washed down the pill with a big swig of his beer before Paul could continue to protest. When he saw the others follow suit, Paul caved. "Oh well, if this makes us barmy, we may as well be barmy together."

The boys soon discovered Otto hadn't lied. They were bursting with frantic energy the rest of the night, and they left the stage feeling like they could take on the world. All of a sudden, surviving the rough life at the infamous red light district became much easier and they were playing better than ever before. Or a lot faster, at least. Nothing much bothered them anymore, as they'd seen it all and done it all, and were still standing to tell the tale. Most of the band felt on top of the world, but something inside Paul felt off. He was having more fun than he ever deemed possible, but he also felt something unfamiliar and dangerous arising in the pit of his stomach.

Ever since they had started using the Prellies, he had felt on edge and the boundless energy also caused restlessness. He didn't use half as many of the magic pills as the others, but he was still bouncing off the walls. It was eating at him. By the beginning of November, he felt thin, like a scrap of butter spread over too many slices of bread. The long hours, living on a diet of pills and alcohol, and the lack of sleep were wreaking havoc on his teenage brain. He still enjoyed the whole experience very much, or at least he was quite sure he did. And yet, there was something he couldn't identify, like a heath fire, waiting for a chance to come to the surface.

Eventually, everything started to bother him: how Pete sometimes wouldn't show up for a gig so Ringo from Rory Storm's band needed to step in. The rude English johns, who'd disturb the show with their obnoxious demands. Or Bruno sacking them after he found out they had agreed to start playing at the Top Ten Club. That particular blow-up happened on the 1st of November and about a week later, when they were doing some of their last gigs at the Kaiserkeller, the fire that had been simmering in the back of Paul's being turned into a full blown inferno. Stuart got caught in the flashover.

"Christ Stu, what was that? Are you playin' the same song as the rest of the band?" Paul hissed at the bassist, loud enough so Stuart would hear, but not so loud that the others would notice. He hated being stuck on the side of the stage to play the piano. It made him feel less a part of the band, somehow. He should take centre stage with John, not that talentless hack Sutcliffe. "Wrong chord again, mate. We're in the key of G, y'know." Stuart didn't respond, which made Paul even angrier. Oh, what he wouldn't give to have a go at that stupid git with his naff sunglasses.

"John'll sack ye if ye keep playin' like that, y'know." He wasn't hissing anymore, and he noticed Pete cocking an eyebrow. Oh well, fuck Pete. It wasn't like he was the best drummer in the world, either. Paul liked that Ringo bloke a lot better anyroad. Paul was pleased to see the veneer of Stu's facade was cracking. His playing became increasingly worse, but that only gave Paul more ammunition. "Are you lettin' John shag Astrid, Stu? Can't think why else you'd still be here." Pete definitely heard that one, Paul could tell. And judging by the missed chord, so did George. So far, only John seemed oblivious, which was easily explained by him being the farthest from where Paul was sitting.

Paul focused on the piano solo now, making sure to make it as rock 'n' roll as he possibly could. He knew this would not only impress the audience, but hopefully John as well, so that perhaps he'd realise Paul's spot was at the middle of the stage and then Stu could take the back seat where he belonged. He saw his victim clenching his jaw now and decided he'd go in for another blow as soon as his middle-eight was done.

Stu literally beat him to the punch. When Paul was busy showing off his piano chops, Stuart had taken off his bass and more or less tossed it aside. The moment John started to sing the next verse, he threw himself on Paul, knocking him squarely off his chair and behind the piano. The first punch was Stu's, but Paul soon retaliated. The fight turned into a sort of wrestling match, in which neither managed to get the upper hand. Each succeeded in dealing the other some good punches, and Paul even managed a head butt, which made his own head spin. But by the time the others – who had stoically continued to play as if nothing was wrong – finished the song, they were in a sort of mutual headlock, unable to actually get the fight going properly.

"Stu, Paul, are you out of yer fucking minds? Sack it right now!" Rather than obey John's barked order, Paul remained where he was, stubbornly continuing to try and get the upper hand. He wasn't going to be defeated by the short, babyfaced bass player if he had any say in it. So he continued to struggle, determined win the fight and show one Stuart Sutcliffe once and for all that Paul McCartney was a force to be reckoned with.

Next thing he knew, someone grabbed Stu under his arms and dragged him off of Paul, his feet frantically kicking at every inch of Paul's body he could reach. A victorious smirk crept upon Paul's face, until he too was unceremoniously dragged to his feet. "Paul. Bog. Now!" Though the low growl of John's voice told Paul he expected his order to be followed without hesitation, Paul didn't immediately follow suit. He managed to cast a quick look of contempt at his rival, who in turn was trying to break loose from Pete and George's grip, before John's hands grabbed him roughly by the scruff of his neck, forcing him away from the stage and into the small backstage loo.

"What the fuck was that about, ye gobsmite? Ye better have a fuckin' good excuse if ye wanna stay in this band, mate!" John's hoarse voice ricocheted off the walls of the smelly room, its volume enhanced by the cold porcelain surfaces. The sound irritated Paul's overexcited nerves. His heart was pounding, and a wave of something dangerously hot coursed through him, starting somewhere near his navel and spreading like wildfire until even the hairs on his neck felt like they were charged with high-voltage electricity.

Paul laughed harshly, completely incapable of any coherent thought. "Go'ead, mate, kick me out. See how far yer little band'll get without me."

Without missing a beat, John took a swing and punched Paul squarely in the face. For a moment, Paul could only see little bright lights popping in front of his eyes. Something warm manifested itself beneath his nose, slowly tracing the curve of his upper lip and to the corner of his mouth until he could actually taste the blood. "Well Johnny boy, ye've got a pretty nice right hook," Paul snarled, his ears buzzing and his heart racing, "...for a fucking shirtlifter!"

This time, Paul saw the swing coming. In one fluid move, he blocked John's assault and made an attack of his own, his limbs moving on their own accord as it an invisible force was controlling his muscles. Without thinking, he curled his fingers around his mate's throat and moved forward, until the small of John's back was pressed up against the small wash basin. For a moment, he just stood there, unaware of John's failed attempt to break loose.

"Paul...please...!" Something in John's voice brought Paul back to his senses. He blinked a few times and became aware of his surroundings. He noticed his own hands, throttling his best friend and wondered how that happened. He saw his reflection in the dirty mirror behind John's head and was shocked by what he saw: beneath the bruises and blood, his face was a stark white mask, his eyes large and black, harbouring something alien. Whoever that bloke in the mirror was, it wasn't him. Couldn't possibly be him. He tore his eyes away from the unwelcome sight of his inner demons, and looked at John, only to see something else he never thought he'd witness: fear. His best friend, the coolest and toughest Scouse he knew, looked terrified.

Paul staggered back, horrified. "Bloody hell John, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry!" He felt physically ill; his entire body trembled and his insides churned. Paul's hands flew to his head, his fingers gripping desperately at his hair. His face felt hot beneath his hands. He was panting now, as if he had run a marathon. He felt his heart pounding so ridiculously fast, his ears rang with the deafening sound of blood rushing through his veins. "I'm so sorry John, please forgive me..." The words were barely a more than a hoarse, slurred whisper. He vaguely heard a distant voice call out his name before the room went dark.

Paul vaguely registered the sensation of a pair of hands catching him and coaxing him to the floor. Someone was calling his name and tapping his face. He slowly opened his eyes, which took a tremendous effort. His eyelids felt so incredibly heavy; had they always been that way? "Come on Macca, look at me!" Finally, he willed himself to look up and see John, who was crouched in front of him. "Shit Paul, you scared me half to death," John croaked. Without another word, he pulled Paul into a tight hug.

Paul couldn't tell how much time has passed when they let go of each other, and he decided it didn't matter. He didn't know if it was because of his best friend holding him, but his heartbeat had slowed to a fairly acceptable speed, and his head felt a lot clearer. He sought John's gaze, and held it with his own in a final, wordless plea for forgiveness. Relief washed over him when his friend inclined his head in a nearly invisible nod. All was not lost after all, and he was still welcome in the life of the man he'd come to love so much.

Love... The word filled his head, like a never-ending chant. 'I love John.' It was like someone turned a lightbulb on inside Paul's mind. Why didn't he realise this before? How could he be so oblivious of his own emotions? Of course he loved John, had done so for a long time. Slowly, Paul moved himself increasingly closer to John, until their bodies were touching and their faces were mere inches apart. He raised a trembling hands and placed them gently against John's cheeks, whose eyes fluttered closed at the touch. Paul closed the gap between their faces and allowed his lips to find John's.

"John? Paul? Everything alright in there? Come on guys, the club is closing; we need to leave!" George's interruption brought John and Paul back to reality, and they broke their kiss. John leaned his forehead against Paul's for a second before answering their younger friend, "Yeah, everything's fine. We'll be right there, Geo." He turned his face back towards Paul and whispered, "You are fine, aren't you? Wouldn't want you to try and bash our bassist's head in. I know he's rubbish, but it's better than not havin' someone on bass at all." Paul nodded. "I'll be good, Johnny. Sorry for being such a wanker. I've done horrible things tonight, and I'm truly sorry." "Do us a favour and stop apologising, Paul. It's alright. I'm alright."

John pulled Paul up off the floor and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "We're alright."


	5. Chapter 5

It was a dreary December night and Paul was sat on his bed at Forthlin Road, his guitar on his lap and a cup of tea on the windowsill. The tea had been hot when he put it there but had long since grown stone cold, because Paul had lost himself in thought and was staring out of his bedroom window into the rapidly darkening evening sky.

Over two weeks had passed since he and Pete got kicked out of Germany, just days after the bizzies had deported George for being underage. He hadn't heard from anyone since, so he assumed the band was history. Part of him was sad about that, but it also made things a lot easier at home. Paul winced at the memory of his return, and the look of disappointment on his dad's face when he heard his son had been arrested. Getting an earful was something he could handle; feeling like he let his father down was a lot harder to digest. And so he had heeded the warning to 'get a job or don't come back', started working at a factory, and stayed out of the way as much as he could in hopes of getting back on his dad's good side.

A familiar voice tore Paul right out of his daydream, and back into his bedroom. "So what are you thinking about then, anything good?"

Paul jumped at the sound. He turned his head so quickly, he nearly pulled a muscle in his neck. His face lit up at the sight of John sauntering into the room. "John! How are you? When did you get back?" He gestured for John to come and sit next to him on the bed, "Who let you in?"

John grinned at the questions fired at him. He took his time getting comfortable, before he answered, counting the questions on his fingers as he did so. "Fine, five days ago, and Mike, but I don't see the relevance in that last one."

"Yeah well, I doubt da' would be happy to see you right now. He didn't take me getting arrested very well," Paul shrugged. "So if you've been back nearly a week, why haven't you contacted me before? I missed you..." A slight blush crept upon his face at his last words.

"So, the arl fella's takin' it hard, eh? I can't imagine why. Who wouldn't want a felon for a son?" John nudged his knee against Paul's. "I missed you too, Macca. Hamburg as a drag after you left."

Paul nodded. "Yeah, home's been on top te fuck too. I'm glad you're back." He shuffled around a bit, unsure how to proceed. Eventually, he managed, "John, maybe we should talk about everything that's happened..." His voice trailed off and he looked at John, unsure what his response would be.

To his relief, John's lips curled up in a mischievous smile instead. "You mean, things like this?" He reached out and casually moved the guitar out of the way. Then he pulled Paul in to close the gap between their bodies. His lips grazed Paul's for a moment, very softly, as if he was asking for permission. Paul leaned in a bit closer, answering the question that was present in John's touch. He steadied himself by placing one hand on John's hip, lacing the other in the auburn tresses. John let out a soft groan and smiled against Paul's lips, to which Paul replied by nipping gently at John's bottom lip. John now had his arms wrapped firmly around Paul's torso, pressing their bodies closely together. The kiss deepened as they explored each other's mouths with a passion that made their hearts beat in a hypnotising rhythm. When they broke away from the kiss, their cheeks were flushed. Paul was slightly out of breath when he answered, "Yeah, things like that."

They sat there for a moment, arms wrapped around each other, each immersed in their own train of thought. Then, Paul gently untangled himself from their embrace when he heard his brother pottering about across the landing. He placed a finger against his lips in response to John's questioning look, and mouthed 'Mike' as he made to close the bedroom door to hide them from prying eyes and ears before quickly returning to sit next to John once more. Eventually, he willed himself to put his thoughts into words.

"John, I need to talk to you about what happened... in Hamburg, y'know."

John sighed a little. "Please stop apologising for that, Paul. I meant it when I said it the first time. It happened, there's nothing we can change about that now. Can't we just forget about it and move on?"

"Maybe you can, but I can't. I nearly strangled you, John. I need to know where it all came from y'know, because I'm not like that at all and it's been haunting me. I can't just blame it on the drugs and the alcohol; it must have been something deeper than that."

"Go'ed then, let's talk. Do you have a theory at all?"

Paul rubbed his eyes, trying to remember what he had thought of earlier. "Yeah, could be rubbish though, I dunno. I think a few things happened at once, really. Remember how I sort of passed out after that fight? I heard about anxiety attacks and I think I had one of those. It fits, you know. And I think it's been a long time coming – ever since me birthday, now that I'm thinking about it."

"Of course I remember that, you beaut, how could I forget? Dead scary, that was. Not just the strangling, mind. That was frightening too but I got over that soon enough really. But that whole thing... It was like ye weren't even there anymore, you know? And to see you just collapse like that... I didn't know what to do at all. For a moment, I thought..." John let his words trail off, and grabbed Paul's hand. "But how can a barney from six months ago lead to that, Paul? I know I was being a tosser, and I really am sorry, but didn't we work that out?"

"I'm not accusing you, John. I'm over that, I think. But I think you kissing me started something, y'know, in the back of me mind... I'm thinking I was havin' feelings for you without knowing it. I knew I loved you right before I kissed you last month, but now I'm thinking it was in the back of me mind all along, and it made me insecure, and frustrated, and maybe even jealous..."

John watched Paul with a look of astonishment on his face. "Wow, you really thought about this, haven't you? But 'ang on... what would you be jealous of, and why didn't you say anything before?"

Paul shrugged, "Because I didn't realise this before. Like I said, I didn't know I felt that way. But looking back, I can see that I did; why else would I have been so upset by that row? It's not like we haven't had a barney before, right? So when you were giving all that attention to Stu, and I was stuck behind that piano, I just felt it should be me standing next to you and it started to fester. Those pills were doin' me 'ead in, I was drunk off me arse, I was knackered... I think it all just added up, and it was a matter of time before I was going to blow up. And when I did, you and Stu bore the brunt of it, when the real issue was inside of meself."

John thought about what Paul said for a moment. "You know Paul, I think I understand what you mean. I'm impressed you sussed that out all on yer own."

"Yeah well, I've had time to think. I'm working at Massey and Coggins now, and that's not very exciting so the mind tends to wander, you know. I mean, I can't complain. I'm making money and learning a trade; I even get Sundays off, which is nice. But I'm at the bottom of the ladder so it's not very challenging."

"Of course not. Nothing can be a challenge after everything we've endured. And you, music is in yer blood, Macca. That's what you were born to do, not work some factory job like every other sod. I'll have to talk to the lads, see if we can get some gigs. What do you say?"

"I don't know, John. Me da' was very clear about it: either I earn me keep or I can bugger off. I was in a really bad way when I got back and I don't think he'd be thrilled to see me choose that life again, y'know. I've let 'im down John, I owe it to 'im to take this job seriously. What are the chances of us ever making it as rock stars anyroad? da' didn't make it, why should we be any different?"

"Fair enough mate, but I'm going to talk to the others anyroad. Maybe Pete's mum will put us on the bill for Saturday nights at the Casbah again, you could combine that with yer job, right? Let's at least play together again. Maybe Jim will change his mind when he sees how good we've gotten. What's that sound like?"

"Yeah, I could do that. I think that'd be quite good, actually."

"Brilliant. I'll talk to George and Pete, and if they're up for it, we'll see if Mona can put us up. Stu stayed with Astrid so we'll need someone on bass, but let's worry about that later. There's something I want to talk about with you too."

Paul cocked his head at the sudden change in John's demeanour. "Yeah? What do you want to talk about, John?"

"Us. I need to know where we stand, what this is, and how it's going to be." John looked away, so Paul gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, much like John had done for him just moments before.

"I think that's a good idea, John. Why don't you start? You can say anything to me, I'm listening."

"Well... I know I like girls, and I know you do too. But I love you more, you know what I mean?"

Paul nodded, "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. So what do we do about it?"

"I'd like to see if we can make it work. We just have to be mindful, you know. I don't want this to wreck our friendship. And we'd have to be careful about it, because I don't want either of us to end up in jail... or worse.... simply because we like snogging each other. We can't tell anyone – at all."

"I agree. We do have to be careful. It's not right that we should, but it is the way it is."

"Right. And I also think that's why I reacted so badly in June you know. I took a chance and I thought you were rejecting me, and I was scared you'd go and tell someone. But I wanted then what I want now, and that is for us to be together, whichever way we can make that work."

"That's what I want too. And I believe we can find a way. But John, let's take it one step at a time, alright? I'm still getting used to the idea, so nothing too serious for now, okay? I really enjoy kissing and stuff, but I don't see meself – you know. Not yet, anyroad."

John laughed, "You and me both, mate. I've never been in love with a bloke before either, you know. Taking it slow sounds good. I'm not in any hurry."

The room had now gotten completely dark. Paul turned on the light and checked the time. "Look at that, we've been yakkin' fer hours. I need to get up early, so I best get ready for bed. Are you stayin' over?"

"Don't mind if I do," John chuckled, as he proceeded to strip down to his underpants. When he was about to step into the bed, a memory made him giggle. "No top-and-tailing for old times' sake, then?"

Paul couldn't help but laugh too. "Best not risk it, mate. I doubt me arl fella would be amused by you screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night again."

"Michael, would you mind finishing your breakfast in your room? I need to talk to your brother in private. Thank you, son." Jim McCartney smiled warmly at his younger progeny.

Mike knew better than to argue, so he quickly got up. "Good luck, mate," he murmured to Paul before he collected his things and marched up the stairs.

Paul sat in anticipation of what was to come. He had a clue, and he realised he wouldn't have to wait long to discover whether or not he was correct. His dad wasn't one to skirt around an issue. Sure enough, Jim dived right in and clearly stated what was on his mind.

"Paul, I am worried about you. When you came home two weeks ago, you were skin and bones, covered in bruises, dressed like a vagabond, and fresh out of jail. That was enough to upset any parent, but at least you promised to improve your behaviour. And now you go behind my back and sneak that John Lennon into the house." He paused when Paul's eyes darted in the direction of the door through which his sibling had just disappeared. "No, Mike didn't tell me. I may be old, but I'm neither deaf nor blind. I do know what goes on in my own house, Paul. What was John doing here?"

For a moment, Paul's mind wandered as the memory of waking up in John's arms warmed his heart. John had snuck out of the house at the crack of dawn, but not before they had spent some more time snogging and whispering sweet nothings. 'Can't very well tell da' about that,' Paul thought, so instead he just shrugged.

Jim sighed at the lack of response. "Paul, would you please answer my question?"

"There's nothing to say, da'." Paul really didn't want to talk, so he threw an exaggerated glance at the clock and pretended to be shocked to see the time. "I need to go, I'll be late for work." He quickly got up and made a beeline for the door.

"James Paul McCartney, you will get back here and sit down. This conversation is not over until I say it is!" Jim's voice boomed through the dining room.

Paul froze to the spot and felt his ears go red. He knew things were serious when his father belted out his full name like that. Dragging his feet, he returned to the table and plopped back down in his seat, annoyed by his father's probing. "Yer doin' me ''ead in, da'! Jus' sack it, yeah?" Why were parents always so... so... parent-like?

"Language, Paul! Scouse is something you eat, not something you speak. And I must say I don't appreciate your attitude at all. You may be an adult now, but as long as you continue to live under my roof, you will abide by my rules and that includes behaving like a civilised, respectful human being." The stern reprimand made Paul feel like he was 8, instead of 18 and a half.

"Sorry, da'." Paul hung his head and started picking at the callouses on his hands, which all of a sudden looked mighty interesting and something very much worth paying close attention to.

Jim heaved a deep sigh, and placed his hands over his son's in a protective gesture. His voice was calm, maybe even a bit weary when he said, "I wish you'd talk to me, lad. What happened in Germany that's so bad you can't confide in me about it? Don't you know I love you, and you can always speak to me – no matter what?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Alright then – John was here to catch up, that's all. He's thinking about getting the band up and running again, maybe play some gigs around Liverpool." There, the word was out.

"I see. And what did you tell him? Surely you remember our earlier conversation, Paul. I stand by what I said. Unlike your brother, you're not in school anymore and therefore you must maintain yourself a steady job. I cannot allow you to live in this house if you don't do anything constructive. We need the money, you know that."

Paul could definitely hear fatigue in his father's voice now. He willed himself to sound mature and reasonable when he replied, "I do know that, and I did get a job, didn't I? Of course I told John. And if we do go back on stage, it'll be on Saturday nights so I don't have to miss work. But I need to make music, da'. You encouraged me to become a musician. It doesn't seem fair to take it away from me now."

After a short pause, Jim nodded and gave Paul's hands a gentle squeeze. "Fair enough, son. If you can combine the two, then I won't stand in your way. But my warning stands: either you acquire a steady income, or you find somewhere else to live. That may seem like an outrageous demand, but you'll understand me when you're older. And please don't keep secrets from me. You know how I feel about that Lennon boy; I have always thought he's a bad influence on you. But I also acknowledge that you are now an adult and I am no longer in the position to tell you who you can and cannot see. If you must invite him over to the house, at least be honest about it. Can you do that for me, Paul?"

"Yeah of course, da'. Thanks." Paul felt relieved. He got up from the table and gathered his plate and cutlery in one hand, whilst utilising the other to drink the last bit of coffee on the way to the sink.

Jim followed Paul's example and ruffled his son's hair as they passed. "You best get ready to leave now, or you will in fact be late for work. Would you mind telling your brother to get ready for school? Oh, and he'll need to change into a clean shirt first. I saw an egg stain underneath his tie; it's unsightly."

"I'll tell him, da'." Paul planted a quick kiss on the top of his father's head before exiting the kitchen. As he trudged up the stairs, he heard his dad's raised voice, "I love you, Paul." He smiled to himself and replied, "I love you too, da'."

*

"Macca! Hey Paul, over here...!" George and John were frantically gesturing to Paul from behind the wall surrounding the factory terrain. It was the end of December, his first day back at work after Christmas, and he was supposed to be sweeping the yard – supposed being the operative word.

In reality, he was thinking about how good it was to be on stage again. As promised, John had made arrangements for them to play on Saturdays and that had been just brilliant. The crowd's response was a clear indication of how much better they had become over the past months, and that had definitely made short work of the dejection they had initially felt. When his band mates showed up at the factory, Paul had been idly leaning on his broom, thinking about their upcoming gig, which would be at the Casbah club on New Year's Eve.

Paul casually sauntered over to where his friends were, trying not to attract attention. "What are you doin' here, I'm supposed to be working."

"Yeah, we can see that. Never seen anyone yield a broom with that much vigour, son," John quipped. George chuckled, "Yeah, you might want to take it down a notch or you'll hurt yerself."

Paul pulled a face, "Haha, very funny. Did you come here to watch me work or is there another reason?"

"We came to liberate you, actually," George chirped. He obviously had been aching to get to the point.

Paul failed to suppress a snort, "Liberate me?"

John's eyes were bright and smiling, "Yeah, we've got a gig at Litherland Town Hall, mate. It's going to be a cracker."

"What, today? I can't, me da' will kick me out on the street if I get sacked." Paul grunted internally. Perhaps his father had been right about John being a bad influence, because here he was – seriously considering doing the gig.

John's face spelt mischief. Paul was sure that if he looked close enough, he could actually see the word written across his friend's forehead. "Well, it's not getting the sack if you quit is it? Come on mate, you know you want to. This place has nothing to offer you, you belong on stage with us. Jim knows that, everybody can see it clear as day."

Paul was torn. He knew John was right. He knew what he really wanted, and it wasn't learning how to be a coil winder. He was rubbish at it anyway, not that he'd ever confess that to his mates. But barely a fortnight ago, he had promised his dad he'd not let the gigs get in the way of his job.

"Come on, Macca. I'm sure he won't kick you out and if he does, I'll pester Mimi into letting you stay at Mendips. But he really won't, you know."

That did it. "Oh, alright then. Stand back." In one swift move, Paul was up and over the wall, leaving the broom lonely and forgotten on the factory courtyard as three tall young men, clad in black leather, legged it to the nearest bus stop.

Paul couldn't help but feel slightly guilty when the band was waiting to go on stage. He had, after all, broken his promise by bailing his job for this gig. He desperately hoped the show would be a success. And if it didn't, there would be nothing else he could do but beg for his job back. And that wasn't all he would be begging for, knowing his dad.

"Chin up, mate, he'll understand. He's a musician too, he knows what it's like. I'm sure he's not going to binbag ye."

When had John learned to read his mind? Paul turned his face to catch John's eyes. A quick glance around the room told him nobody was watching, so he risked it and gave John a quick peck on the lips and a wink. "I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Anyroad, there's nothing you can do about it now, so let's go and write history, shall we?" John squeezed Paul's hand, and then addressed the group.

"Alright lads, we go on in two minutes and I don't know about you, but I've got a great feeling about tonight. So, where are we going boys?"

Paul and George smiled broadly; it was a long time since they did this bit. Pete and the new bass player Chas didn't know it yet, so it was just the two of them that yelled, "to the top, Johnny!"

"And where is that, brothers?"

The lads cheered loudly, "the toppermost of the poppermost!"

"That's what I thought. Now, enough mucking about, it's time to start the show. Paul, you're up first. Let's show these people what real music sounds like!"

The band walked on stage, welcomed by polite applause. People were standing around the dance floor, apparently ready to twist and swing. Paul walked up to the middle of the stage, and smiled to himself. Time to bring some life to the party. To his left, he heard John count down. Just like so many times before, Paul hit his cue on '3' and pulled out all the stops:

 

_"I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John_

_He said he had the misery but he got a lot of fun_

_Oh baby, yeah now baby_

_Woo baby, some fun tonight_

 

_I saw Uncle John with Long Tall Sally_

_He saw Aunt Mary comin' and he ducked back in the alley_

_Oh baby, yeah now baby_

_Woo baby, some fun tonight_

 

_Well Long Tall Sally's built pretty sweet_

_She got everything that Uncle John need_

_Oh baby, yeah now baby_

_Woo baby, some fun tonight_

 

_Well, we're gonna have some fun tonight_

_Have some fun tonight_

_Everything's all right_

_Have some fun tonight_

_Have some fun, yeah, yeah, yeah_

 

_We're gonna have some fun tonight_

_Have some fun tonight_

_Everything's all right_

_Have some fun tonight_

_Yeah, we'll have some fun_

_Some fun tonight"_

 

The moment the music started, Paul forgot all about his troubles. The world beyond the stage ceased to exist, it was just him, his friends, and the music. The energy he felt filled the room like an electric current, and soon people were not dancing, but surging towards the stage and screaming, completely beyond themselves with excitement. When the song was through, the room exploded with cheers. The lads had never experienced anything like that before, nor had they heard of any band ever getting that kind of response. It encouraged them to give it their all, and the more they gave, the more the crowd went barmy.

When their set was done, the roar was deafening. As far as the audience was concerned, this was the best band in all of Liverpool – and far beyond. And if Paul had any worries left about facing his father's wrath, he quickly learned he was going to be alright. Because before he went home that night, the band had been booked to play a large number of paid gigs. Suddenly, the toppermost of the poppermost seemed like a place they might actually see.


	6. Chapter 6

If the following months taught Paul and John one thing, it was how much public displays of affection they could get away with without anyone noticing. The band performed nearly every day – sometimes several times in one day – and they had amassed quite an impressive group of fans, many of whom religiously attended every single one of their shows. Since they were now the most popular band in Liverpool, they were subject to a lot of attention. They were being photographed left, right, and centre. Yet somehow, nobody seemed to notice what John and Paul could see in the photos taken by their fans.

It astonished them that neither the fans nor their band mates took notice of the loving, sometimes even lusting glances they exchanged on stage, or the little touches that were completely redundant, and a clear testimony of their affection to anyone looking for clues. And still, nobody ever said anything when they sat pressed together on sofas that were sufficiently large enough for them to sit apart, or when they simply stared into each other's eyes for long periods of time. People just accepted this was the dynamic between them, and gave it no other thought. Neither John nor Paul was complaining about it; their busy schedule didn't allow them to spend a lot of time together, so being able to get away with some public flirtations was just fine by them. Hiding in plain sight was more fun than either of them had anticipated.

Time flew by, and soon the depressingly gloomy winter made way for spring. The world awoke again, bringing new life and new adventures. One evening at the end of March, John and Paul were wandering the streets of Liverpool – first up to Penny Lane where they got some scran, and then back south towards Allerton: one last tour of their neighbourhood before their second trip to Hamburg would take them far away from home once more. The setting sun turned the sky into an ever-changing painting of pinks, yellows, purples, and blues, and the air was full of the scent of fresh foliage and blossoms. The beauty of it all wasn't lost on the two young men, who walked and watched in silence, shoulder to shoulder, their thoughts perfectly translated by the blackbirds' evening song.

It wasn't long before they reached the massive wrought iron gates of Calderstones park. "John, what are you doin'? The gate isn't locked, y'know." Paul laughed at his mate, who was making a show of climbing up onto the wall next to the massive atlantes on either side of the gates. John teetered dangerously, then regained his balance and casually flung an arm around one of the four statues adorning the wall. "Aye, but it's so much more fun to pretend we're trespassing, isn't it? Where's yer sense of adventure, Macca? Come on up here, and say hello to me friend....erm... Summer, I think."

"Why don' I give me regards to miss Autumn instead? At least she's got 'alf a nose, whereas yer miss Summer has none." Paul guffawed, as he quickly hopped onto the other end of the wall. He watched with glee as John addressed the statue, "Don' listen to 'im, luv. Ye may not have a nose, or hands, but yer beautiful on the inside, where it counts." Then, cackling loudly, he jumped off the wall and tore off into the park, yelling "Catch me if you can, McCharmley" to Paul, who immediately engaged in the pursuit.

Within seconds, Paul caught up and grabbed John by the waist, causing them both to topple down onto the damp soil. They held each other tight and kissed greedily, hidden from sight in the darkness provided by the dusk and the canopy of the trees. "Come'ead, let's say hello to the old oak," Paul murmured against John's neck. John nodded and scrambled to his feet before pulling Paul up and holding his hand as they walked, their fingers intertwined.

"Do you think our music could be like this tree, John?" Paul allowed his hands to caress the bark of the ancient oak, allowing his senses to really register the rough texture, the mossy smell of decay, and the rustling of the millions of leaves.

John was sat at on the ground with his back against the trunk, and observed Paul with slight frown on his forehead. "I'm not entirely sure I understand what you mean, son."

"I mean, look at this tree. It's a thousand years old, yeah? It's got all this history, and it means so much to people. Y'know, hope, justice, n'dat. It looks like it may fall down any moment. But that's just the trunk, y'know. Look up at the branches, man: all those leaves. It's very much alive, isn't it? People say it won't be around much longer but what do they know, right? It may live a thousand more years. I wonder if our music will be like that: still alive and kicking, even when we're two old tossers. And I wonder if we'll be able to bring people together. Wouldn't it be gear if we'd be able to be a force for good, simply by doin' what we love?" He scuffed his feet, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his own words. "Ah, forget about it. It's probably a very arrogant thing to dream about anyroad."

John scrambled to his feet and approached Paul. "I don't think it is at all, Macca. How can it be arrogant to want to do some good? I think it's a really nice thought. Very poetic too, you know." John now too gently trailed his fingers over the coarse surface of the oak, "I don't know if we'll ever be that big, but it's nice to dream about all the same. No shame in that at all."

As the lads continued their walk, the dusk rapidly took possession of the park. The trees were now anonymous black shapes, softly outlined by the light of the moon. The boys found themselves surrounded by the symphony of night: the gentle murmur of the nearby pond, in perfect harmony with the last passages of the blackbirds' melody, to which the frogs provided a gentle rhythm. It was as if nature itself was playing a concert for the two young men who proceeded lie down on a clearing near the water.

"Paul?" John interrupted his stargazing for a moment to look at his mate's profile. "Tell the story again, la'."

"Really?" A chuckle escaped Paul, "I've told it four times already, y'know. It hasn't changed since last week. I've got an idea though..." He kissed John softly, first on the lips, then across his jaw line to his neck where he rested his head on John's shoulder. John smiled and pulled Paul closer, to which the latter responded by draping his left arm across John's chest. "Why don't you tell it to me this time? Yer a great storyteller, y'know."

John waited a moment, then cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice,

"Once upon a time, there were three little boys called John, George, and Paul. They decided to get together for they were the gettin' together type, but soon they wondered what for? So they fashioned some guitars, and started to make some noise, and absolutely no-one at all was interested in what they did. Soon, they discovered an even littler man called Stu, and they said to 'Stu, you shall play the bass and you'll be alright' they said – and he did, but he wasn't, because he couldn't play. So the three little boys sat with 'im until he could, but then a man said, 'ye haven't got a beat'. And so they found some drums, and then some other drums came and went and came as well. But then they found that their sound was no good for they had no amplifiers, so they fashioned some, and they made more noise than ever before.

Soon, people noticed all the noise the little boys were making, and they wanted to know: 'who are these boys, what are they called?' And the boys said 'Beatles', but the people asked 'why? Why Beatles?' So they told them: 'it came in a vision - a man appeared on a flaming pie and said unto them 'From this day on you are Beatles with an 'A'. Thank you, mister man, they said, thanking him' and that is what they told.

And then, a man said, will you go to Germany and play mighty rock for money? And the boys said, we will play mighty anything for money. But before they could go, they had to grow a drummer, and so it was that they fashioned a Pete Best of some Casbah club, and they called 'im and said: 'Pete, will ye play with us in Germany', and Pete said 'yes', and zooooom! Off to Germany they were.

After a few months, Peter and Paul, who is McArtrey, son of Jim McArtrey, lit a Kino on fire with a condom, and the German bizzies said, 'Bad Beatles, you must go home and light yer English cinemas on fire', and zoooom! Half a group left. But even before this, the bizzies had taken little friend George of Speke away, because he was only twelve and not allowed to vote in Germany. But after two months in England, he grew eighteen and the Gerries said, 'you can come now'.

But back in Liverpool village, Jim McArtrey said, 'I do not like yer black clothes, why have you not grey suits like all the other groups', and the buys said, 'we don't like grey suits Jim', speaking to Jim. And so Jim said to his son Paul, you must go and work if you will not wear a suit, he said. And so it was that the boys had to play without their Paul, for he had to work because he had not a grey suit. One day, John of Woolton and George of Speke said, 'will you play with us again', and Paul, son of Jim, said 'yes' and zoooom! Off to the clubs they were, and the people did not mind they hadn't any gray suits at all, so then Jim McArtrey spoke to them, and he spoke: 'you may keep yer black clothes and play mighty rock for peasants', and so they did. The end."

Paul smiled against John's neck, and said, "See? That was a very good tale, sir John of Woolton." He nuzzled John for a while, breathing in the scent of the warm body beneath him, mingled with the fresh and sweet smells of the park. They lay there, cuddling in silence until John felt a chill creep up from the ground beneath his back.

"Paul?" Instead of speaking, Paul merely snuggled a bit closer. "Yer not sleeping, are you?"

"Hmmmm... maybe..."

John shivered slightly. "Come on, ye lazy git. We'll catch our deaths here if we don't get going soon. Are you sleeping at my place?"

Paul reluctantly lifted his head and stretched like a cat, trying to banish the sleep from his head. "Can't. da' expects me home." An enormous yawn interrupted his words. "He's worried enough about me getting back into the fray as it is; I don't want 'im getting a cob on about me stayin' out all night" Not quite able to wake up properly, he put his head back on John's shoulder, rubbing his eyes.

John chuckled mischievously and quickly rolled over so that Paul ended up lying on his back, with John on top of him. He leaned on his elbows and held Paul's head in both hands, whilst Paul wrapped his arms around John's back, their faces hovering mere inches apart from each other. "Are ye absolutely sure ye can't stay over?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Paul couldn't hold back a chortle.

"Ooh, such a dirty old man you are, trying to seduce an innocent youth like meself..." Paul batted his eyelashes. John quickly retaliated by attacking Paul's lips with his own for a long, deep kiss which elicited a deep groan from Paul. "Yeah, yer innocence incarnate, Macca. And I'm the bloomin' queen of England." Paul didn't miss a beat. "Why yer Majesty, what an honour to meet you. Now please geroff ma'am, because the ground is cold and there's a stone poking in me back."

"Is it now? How inconvenient for you," John teased. Without breaking eye contact, he moved himself lower and pushed Paul's T-shirt up, exposing his stomach to the chilly evening air. A shiver ran down Paul's spine, and goose pimples appeared all over his skin. "Cold, are we?" John blew a loud raspberry on Paul's abdomen, causing them both to erupt in hysterical giggles. Nearby, a pair of sparrows took off twittering. "Look what ye've done, John," Paul chuckled, "yer chasin' the birds away now!"

"Good thing you're not a bird then, isn't it," John laughed, his lips curled up in a smile that spelt mischief.

Paul had no idea what John was up to, but he definitely knew what it felt like, and that was the polar opposite of going home. "Erm John, didn't you say that we ought to get going?"

"Can't a bloke change his mind anymore, Macca? Relax, will ye?" He flashed Paul a wink, and began trailing butterfly kisses down into the direction of his navel.

Paul gasped at the touch, and felt his face grow hot when John tugged at the waist band of his slacks. When John reached the small trail of hair leading downwards, Paul's head fell back and his back arched up. He bit his bottom lip, trying in vain to suppress a groan, which was answered by an appreciative grin from John.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open. "John, stop!"

John ceased his attempts at unbuttoning Paul's trousers and looked up, frowning. "What is it? You want this too, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do, man. But we can't do this here, not now. Listen..!"

John sighed, but complied. "Crap," he whispered, when he discovered why Paul had interrupted their little tryst. Several voices echoed through the park; not too nearby, but close enough.

"Maybe we better go now," Paul whispered, clambering to his feet. He extended a hand to John and pulled him up too. He pulled his T-shirt down as far as he could. When his eyes found John's, he couldn't help but giggle, "ta' for making these damn drainies even tighter, mate. Blue balls just got a whole new meaning, if you get what I mean."

"Yeah well, I aim to please," John guffawed and quickly gave Paul a slap on his arse, "Serves ye right for being such a tease."

"It's what I do best, luv. Now come on, let's go." The boys started towards the Yewtree Road gates, throwing playful punches at each other.

When they arrived at the exit, John tried one more time, "Are ye absolutely sure ye don't want to sleep over? Mendips is just around the corner, we can be in me room in ten minutes; five if we leg it."

Paul laughed at John's persistence. He wanted nothing more than to accept the invitation. "I'm sorry luv, but we can't risk getting caught. We agreed on that, remember?"

"And what if I promise to keep me 'ands... among other things... to meself?" If only John hadn't suggestively wiggled his eyebrows, Paul might have thrown caution in the wind. Instead, he shook his head, "I don't trust you farther than I can throw you, John."

"Ar 'ey! No need for hurtin' me feelins, mate!," John pouted. Then he grinned, "Come to think of it, you might have a point. Still, I don't see the problem."

A crimson blush crept across Paul's face as he said in a low voice, "There's a reason we can't do it at either of our rooms when yer aunt or me da' and brother are in, y'know." Now it was his turn to twitch his eyebrows in a 'wink-wink, nudge-nudge' kind of way.

"Ooooh," John gasped, as the penny dropped, "You're that loud, are you?"

Paul winked and started walking away backwards, "That's for me to know and you to find out, Johnny boy... if you're lucky!" And with that, he turned around and started the 20-minute walk to Forthlin Road.


	7. Chapter 7

"Paul? The lads are here, son. It's time to leave!" The sound of his father's call made Paul's heart jump. He was in the middle of a battle of wills with his suitcase, which contested Paul's determination to close the lid on the obscene volume of luggage with an equally stubborn refusal to comply. "Comin' da'", Paul yelled back, staring daggers at his uncooperative baggage. He pondered his options, but decided he really didn't want to come to a compromise, so he pulled the suitcase onto the floor, positioned his knees atop either end of the lid and put his weight into it. With one final effort, he finally managed to win the fight.

As he moved to grab his coat, he caught his reflection in the mirror. A rather dishevelled image looked back at him: sweat was running down the sides of his face, and his quiff had lost its battle against gravity. The prospect of spending the next who-knew-how-many hours looking like that in John's presence didn't seem very appealing. There was just one problem: his comb was packed away in the suitcase he had just managed to close after wrestling it for the better part of ten minutes. There was nothing to it: the lads would have to wait a minute longer.

Answering Jim's stern cry of "Paul, please!" with an exasperated "Yeah yeah, I'll be right there", he made a beeline for the bathroom, in search of the items required to fix his hair. Relief washed over him when he found his father's comb and some vaseline, and he quickly put both to good use. With his duck tails firmly in place and his pompadour thoroughly greased up, he ran a wet finger over his eyebrows, slipped on his coat, grabbed his luggage and galumphed down the stairs to meet his bandmates.

"Alright, la'?" John stood next to Jim, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a lopsided smirk on his face. "We feared you'd flushed yerself down the loo there for a second. Ready to go, then?"

Paul's nodded, "Sorry to keep you waiting, man. Me suitcase wouldn't close." He chose to keep his last-minute styling session to himself, suspecting a confession like that would make him the target of relentless teasing all the way to Hamburg. "Can you load my stuff into the van for me, John? I'll be right there."

As John heaved Paul's suitcase and guitar into the back of the minibus, Paul turned to face Jim. "Well, I guess I'm off then, da'. Thank you for allowing me to do this. I know you'd rather I didn't go..."

"You're right, son. I'd much prefer you here where I can keep an eye on you," Jim agreed, placing a warm hand on Paul's shoulder. "But if this is what you need to do to further your career, then you must go. Just promise me you'll take better care of yourself this time, alright? And if you can, call us on the telephone or write a letter about your adventures." Jim pulled his oldest son into a hug and pleaded, "Try not to get into any fist fights, jail cells, or situations that compromise your overall well-being. I couldn't bear to see anything bad happen to you."

Paul gave his father a bit of a squeeze before gently pulling away. "I will da', I promise. Don't worry about me, alright?" He made for the door, but looked back just before stepping outside. "I'll call you in a few days, after we've settled in. In a bit, da'. I love you!" And with that, he pulled the door shut behind him and joined his friends in the van. "Go'ead lads!"

"Ferngespräch nach England bitte." Paul really hoped the switchboard lady understood him. Languages were not his strong suit and he knew his accent was terrible, but he also took pride in making the effort to at least try and speak German. After a few seconds, he heard, "Yes, sir. City and extension, please?" Relieved to be able to continue in English, he quickly replied, "Liverpool, Garson GAR 6922, thank you." The anonymous voice said, "Garson six, nine, double-two. Please hold, sir."

For a moment, Paul considered the woman's voice, which has been bright and warm; a voice suited for a singer. Not at all like Dorothy, who always spoke in whispers. Just as he was reminding himself to seriously consider whether or not he wanted to continue dating the girl he left at home, his father's voice interrupted. "Paul? I've been waiting for your call, son. How was your journey?"

Paul smiled broadly at the sound of the familiar voice. "Hey, dad! Sorry for not calling sooner. We got here just fine, much better than last time. It's still a long journey, mind. We were dead knackered when we arrived, but I'll take the train over an overcrowded van any day!"

Jim's laughter went straight to Paul's heart. "I have no trouble believing that! And how have you settled in? You've already performed, have you not?"

Paul nodded enthusiastically before realising his father couldn't see it. "Yeah, we have. It was great, really. This club actually has a sound system, with reverb and everything. I'm back on the piano again, though. I dropped my guitar the other night and it broke, so he lads took turns jumping on it until there was nothing left but tinder," Paul chuckled. "I was a bit sour over it at first, but we all laughed about it later. Maybe I'll go buy a new one in a few weeks."

"Well, nothing wrong with playing piano, son. I've always loved playing it, and I know you will too. But tell me, have you sleeping arrangements improved? From what you told me, living conditions were dreadful last time."

The mere thought of their cell at the Bambi Kino made Paul cringe. "We're sleeping above the club, dad," he reassured his father. "It's a little attic room, a bit of a dormitory, really. It's simple, but it's clean. Our room at the Kino smelled like a loo, and this one smells like a Chinese laundry, because we wash our own clothes and hang them to dry in our room. So yeah, it's still very meager but it's much better than last time. No need to worry about that, dad." A crisp voice alerted Paul to either insert more coins or end the call. "Dad, I've run out of coins so I have to hang up in a minute. But tell me, how are you and Mike doing? Anything new since I left?"

"We're doing very well, Paul. Nothing has changed in the week since you've been gone. Your aunt said to tell you hello and that she misses you already." Paul grinned at the amused tone in his father's voice. He could just picture his aunt fretting over the idea of Paul so far from home, left to fend for himself. She probably thought he'd die of starvation before the month was through and he could almost see Jim roll his eyes at her. "Don't worry about us, you just have a good time and take care of yourself, alright? And son, do me a favour and call collect next time. That way, we can talk as long as you want. Your brother and I love you, Paul. Please say hello to your friends from us, would you?"

"Alright da', I'll tell them. I'll call again soon. Please give everyone my love, yeah? Bye dad." When he exited the yellow telephone box, Paul had a spring in his step. Whatever happened in the weeks to come, he knew he'd get through it with the support of the people he loved the most. He just didn't know yet how soon his confidence would be put to the test.

***

"Lads? I need to talk to you for a second." George, John and Paul paused their activities to look at Stuart. Pete had buggered off as soon as the gig was finished, as he usually did, and it was just the four of them packing up their guitars and amplifiers or in Paul's case: hanging around and lending a hand where needed. It was obvious whatever Stu had on his mind only concerned them, as he had literally spoken up the moment the door had closed behind Pete. But now that three pairs of eyes in varying shades of brown were watching him, he seemed hesitant to go on.

"Make up yer mind Stu, ye either have something to say or ye don't, but don't keep us waiting. Some of us want to go to bed, son." John's impatient growl made the short bassist recoil slightly.

Paul rolled his eyes, "No need for that, John. You being a rotter isn't going to make anyone less knackered." He ignored the insulting gesture made in his direction and turned back to Stuart, "Don't mind 'im, Stu. What did you want to talk to us about?"

Stu drew a deep breath and then blurted out, "I'm leavin' the band."

"Ye wha'?!" John and George's synchronised yell filled the room. Paul was gobsmacked and simply stood there, blinking slowly, unaware of his mouth hanging open.

Stuart closed his eyes briefly before explaining, "I've been accepted into the art school right here in Hamburg so I'm going to start school in June. And I also want to spend more time with Astrid now that we're gettin' married, so I won't be playin' much with you anymore."

The announcement was met by silence. Finally, George managed to speak. "Tha' is going to be a problem, isn't it? We can't go on fer nearly three months without a bass player. If not Stu, then who's goin' to be on bass? It's not goin' to be me, I'll tell you that!"

"And I'm definitely not goin' to either," John declared, before Paul could even open his mouth. "It's my band, and there's no way in hell I'm playin' bass. Especially now I've got a new guitar," he added for good measure, gesturing at his shiny new Rickenbacker.

George and John looked expectantly at Paul, whose gaze traveled from one to the other and back again. "So that's that then, is it? Yer not even askin' me if I even want to be on bass? Because I don't, y'know. John, I play guitar better than you. Bloody hell, you'd still be playin' banjo chords without me, son! And I play at least as well as George. Why should I have to settle for bass? No offence, Stu."

Stu shook his head, looking rather taken aback by the situation his announcement caused. In spite of his chagrin, Paul couldn't help but feel for the lad, who had paled beneath his freckles. "no problem Paul," he murmured.

"Be reasonable, Macca," John offered, adopting a placating tone, which made him sound more like he was correcting a naughty toddler than trying to have an open discussion with an adult, "Yer not playin' guitar now, George and I are. Ye've already played bass before, when Stuart was in Hamburg, and Chas went back to school. Ye even have a bass already."

"Is wrong, mate! You know very well you guys smashed that piece of crap to bits three weeks ago – I only used it as a bass because Stu had gone back to Astrid. It was just for a few weeks; why else do you think it only had three strings – piano strings at that? You know it's the same one, I just put a new set of guitar strings on it!" Paul was furious now, realising he'd been put on the spot by the people he considered his best friends. "It was okay to step in when Stu wasn't there, just like I didn't mind playin' drums when we didn't have a drummer. But I never wanted to be the bass player! I feel we should at least have a discussion about it."

"Go'ead mate, discuss it if thats what ye want," George said with an air of finality, "ask Klaus ter do it fer all I care, but I'm stayin' on lead guitar and that is that. I'm done 'ere, g'night." And with that, he got up and went upstairs to their attic dormitory.

"Look, I'm sorry about this, okay? I can sit in with you until you've settled it, though it's plain to see where this is going to go. I don't think it's fair of you to put Paul in this position, John. He should have a say in it, and not be forced into a corner like this." Stuart spoke quietly, acknowledging Paul's "ta'" with an encouraging smile. He stood up and got ready to leave, but paused to turn to Paul. "Paul, I think we both know how this will play out. If you want, you can use my bass for a while. Just don't change the strings, alright? I know I don't have a future in music, but I would like to be able to play my own bass. I hope you understand. Sorry, mate."

"I'm not mad at you Stu," Paul replied, shaking his head. "I'm sure you'll be right. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Good night, guys."

"Now that's sorted," John stowed away his guitar case and made for the door, "you comin' Macca?"

"No," Paul sulked, "you go'ead. I'll be up in a bit. I'd like to be alone now if it's all the same to you."

"Well, if you're goin' to be a whopper about it, suit yerself" John shrugged, answering the two-fingered salute Paul flashed with an obscene gesture of his own.

An angry shout filled the room as soon as Paul was by himself. It wasn't so much that he hated the bass. He'd been practising for a while and he already had played several gigs. Just like any other instrument, the bass seemed to come naturally to him and he did enjoy creating nice bass lines. But this, this was different.

The band was finally going somewhere, and he realised that at that point, picking up the bass would mean being stuck with it forever. And he didn't like that idea at all, being relegated to the side or the back of the stage, with an instrument that wouldn't allow him to play a nice solo or a catchy riff. Unless...

His eyes fell on Stu's bass guitar and he moved to pick it up. It looked strange when turned upside down; the cutaway and tone knobs looking out of place at the top, not to mention the pick guard being very much in the way. He switched on the amplifier and sat down. "Well," Paul said to the room, "if I'm going to be stuck with this, I may as well show them how it's done."

***

"Wake up, ye lazy git! Com'ead to the city!" Paul protested with a loud growl when his sheets were stripped away and his legs were unceremoniously pulled off his mattress, causing him to nearly fall out of bed completely. Shielding his eyes from the bright daylight, he squinted up into George and John's faces. Pete was nowhere to be seen, nor was their roommate Tony.

"Can't you go without me? I'm dead tired, let me sleep some more," he complained, pulling his feet back on the bed and fully prepared to roll over and kip for a few additional hours.

George's response was to dive on top of Paul, knocking the wind squarely out of him, whilst John grabbed a pillow from the nearest bunk and threw it at Paul's head. "It's half ten in the mornin', son. The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful!"

"Yeah, and so are you," George added with a fanged grin. He moved himself off Paul's torso and proceeded to sit on his legs instead. "Get up Paul, let's go get some scran. I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry, John?"

"I am, though never as hungry as you George," John snorted. "Yer still gorra cob on, Macca? Ye can't keep sulking forever, y'know." John continued in a sing-song voice, "Come on, I'll buy you a hamburger. All ye got to do is open up those pretty eyes of yours and come out to play with us. What's that sound like?"

Paul's reply was to present his friends with the finger and covered his face with the pillow John had thrown at him. "Sod off, will ye? I've been practising with Stu's bloody bass until six." he moaned, the sound of his voice severely muffled by the pillow. "Now, gerroff George, let me sleep! It's the least you can do after shafting me like that!"

"Sorry mate, can't do that. See, we went straight to bed like the well-behaved lads we are, so we're all rested like, and ready to go now. It's not our fault you stayed up past yer bedtime, so you'll just have to get up now or John will jump you too, won't you John?"

Instead of joining George's banter, Paul heard John say, "But it is our fault George, can't you see? Gerroff, leave 'im alone." He squeezed Paul's arm, "I'm sorry for last night mate, I really am. Com'ead Geo, let 'im get some sleep. We can go have ourselves some scran and bring some back for Paul." He sighed, and grumbled, "Four hours of practise after a seven-hour gig. Ye must be daft Paul, that's far more dedication than this fucked up place deserves."

Paul felt George's weight disappear from his legs and used the opportunity to get more comfortable. George's voice sounded remorseful when he muttered, "I'm sorry too, Paul. It was a shitty thing ter do." Another caring touch to his arm made Paul smile underneath the pillow, and he offered them a 'forget about it' kind of gesture. He was fast asleep even before his friends reached the dormitory door.

When he woke up again two hours later, the extra pillow was underneath his head instead of on top of it, and his sheets had somehow made a miraculous reappearance. In fact, they looked a lot like someone had made a well-meant - though poorly executed - attempt at tucking him in. By the sound of the hushed voices nearby, Paul suspected two people in the room were suffering from guilty consciousnesses. He quietly moved his head a bit and looked at John and George through his eyelashes for a little while. They were in seated on Pete's bed, playing a game of cards, which had them both so engrossed that neither noticed they were being watched. "Hey," Paul finally croaked, "who's winning?"

John started as if he was stung by a wasp. George, whose back had been turned to Paul and who was deeply focused on the next move, nearly jumped out of his skin and toppled off the bed. John guffawed at the muffled "Ow, me 'ead!" coming from the floor. In response to Paul's question, he showed the good hand he was holding and raised his arms in a victorious gesture, like a world leader accepting his people's adulation.

An idea suddenly formed itself in Paul's head, and he searched for John's eyes while George was busy figuring out which way was up. The moment John's gaze locked with his, Paul threw him an exaggerated wink, silently communicating to John he had a plan. His voice was quiet and scratchy when he said, "John, do we have any aspirin? I've got a pretty bad 'eadache."

The moment George struggled to his feet, Paul made his smile fall and furrowed his brow, trying to look as miserable as he possibly could. Behind George, John mouthed "Aaah", and tapped a finger against the side of his nose, indicating he understood. "Now that you mention it, you do look a bit peaky, son. Don't you think he looks pale, George?"

"Does he?" George eyed Paul, who was really hamming it up to convince his younger friend. "Well, maybe a little. I don't know. He doesn't look very cheerful, that's for sure."

John moved over to Paul's bed and sat himself down on the edge, placing a hand on Paul's forehead. "Are you alright, Macca? Yer not gettin' ill, are you? I'm sorry to say this son, but ye look the colour of boiled shite."

The mental image triggered by John's words made it impossible for Paul to fight back a loud snort. He quickly clapped a hand to his mouth just in time to mask it. The sound that came out sounded more like gagging than laughing, and Paul decided to use it to his advantage. "I'm really not feeling too well at all, Johnny." Knowing it would make George very eager to leave the room, he added in a tiny voice, "I think I'm going to spew..."

Now it was John's turn to suppress a chortle. "Must be some 'eadache ye got then, Paul. I can go to the pharmacy and get ye some aspirin if you want. George can stay 'ere and help ye get to the loo if it comes to that. Alright?"

"I'll go, Johnny. You stay 'ere with Paul, I'll go get the pills." George was practically out the door already, looking more than a little uncomfortable. John beamed at him, "That's a really nice offer, Geo. While yer at it, try and find some ginger ale too, would ye? Thanks, son." George left in such a hurry, John and Paul half expected a cartoonish dust cloud to rise up from the floor.

Just to make sure they were really alone, John got up and concluded George had indeed left the building. Smiling broadly, he turned around to see Paul crying with laughter, his hand pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound. "Tha' was fucking brilliant, Macca. How did ye know that would work?"

"Back at the Inny, when he was thirteen or fourteen," Paul gasped, trying to compose himself, "he saw someone chunder one day." he sighed and wiped the tears from his eyes, "Ten seconds later, he was spewing all over his own shoes. I've never seen anyone turn that green that quickly ever before or after. Except perhaps on the boat to Holland when you were sick. He disappeared and wouldn't come near you the rest of the way!" He bit his lower lip, but John's howling laughter set him right off again.

"Just so we're clear," John grinned when they could finally look at each other without cracking up, "yer feeling fine? Ye do look a bit pale, you know." He was sat on the edge of the bunk again, looking down at Paul who was propped up on one elbow.

Paul nodded. "I do have a bit of an 'eadache, but nothing some scran won't fix. I just wanted to be alone with you for a bit." He tugged at the sheet that was still covering most of his body, "I can't believe you tucked me in."

John shook his head, "I didn't, George did. Said you looked cold, or something. More like suffering from a guilty conscience if ye ask me." He pointed at Paul's head, "the pillow was me, though. I reckoned it was easier to watch you sleep if it was under yer 'ead instead of on yer face. And maybe I was feelin' a bit guilty too... Not that it was easy to move it without waking you up, mind. Ye had a bloody death grip on it! It was worth the trouble, though. I do love watching you sleep..."

"I love watching you sleep too, John. And you know what else I love? This..." Without further ado, he lifted his free hand and pulled John down by the scruff of his neck for a slow, deep kiss. "How long do you suppose he'll stay away?"

"Oh," John mused, lying down next to Paul with one hand under his head and the other on Paul's hip, "I don't think we'll be seeing the old mucker for at least a half hour. The nearest pharmacy is at the other end of the Reeperbahn." He nuzzled Paul and added, "Never knew yer such a schemer. I do believe I've corrupted ye, McCartney."

"Oh you have," Paul said, his voice earnest but his eyes sparkling, "me da' was right about you all along, y'know. There's no hope for me now, so ye might as well corrupt me some more..." If John had a witty comeback prepared, they got knocked right out of his head by Paul's fierce kiss claiming his complete attention. For the next minutes, no words were uttered, but the intensity of their kisses and the passion of their groping told a tale both men understood perfectly well.

When George carefully poked his head in the door after being gone for nearly an hour, John and Paul had recomposed themselves and were talking quietly whilst Paul munched on the – stone cold – food his friends had brought him. "Yer feelin' better then, are ye?" he asserted, looking relieved and confused at the same time.

"Oh, you should've seen 'im right after ye left, Hazza. It was a sight you wouldn't believe. You were wise to leave when ye did, son. I'm not sure I'll ever get that image out of me mind," John declared. The double entendre was lost on George, but Paul laughed so hard, he nearly choked on his food, causing him to cough so violently, he half expected to hack up a lung. John sympathetically thumped him on the back, biting back his own laughter. "Take it easy, son. It'd be a waste of all that practise if you died on us now." Leaning in close so only Paul could hear, he whispered, "Instant karma for blaggin' his 'ead, son."

Paul retaliated with a well-aimed kick to John's shin. "Did you get the aspirin, Geo? I sure could use it right now," he wheezed when he was fit to speak, his eyes watering and his head pounding from the relentless coughing fit. He took two tablets and sat with his eyes closed for a few moments until his breathing and heart rate returned to a normal pace. Then, he grinned broadly at his bandmates. "We still got nearly four hours to kill before we go on. Let's go out and have some fun. And tonight, I shall blow you away with my new bass chops. How's that sound?"

***

Several weeks had passed since their little stolen moment in the dormitory and sadly, the afterglow had worn off far more rapidly than Paul had hoped. John and he hadn't been able to find much of any privacy since, and John had started taking out his frustrations on everyone and anyone, with Paul being the one receiving most of the abuse. "Christ, Paul, what the fuck is that supposed to be?" He winced at the acidic tone of John's voice and decided he wasn't going to take it lying down anymore.

"What does it look like, genius?" He took his shiny new Hofner bass out of its case and slung the strap over his shoulder. "If you can't remember what a bass guitar looks like, perhaps you should have yer 'ead examined."

"Oh, aren't we funny," John bit back. "Couldn't you just keep using Stu's? You have so far; at least that one looks decent."

"In case you haven't noticed, Lennon, Stu has left the band. I reckon he'll be wanting his bass back before we go home. Besides, I can't keep playin' upside down forever, can I? I'd like to see you try that, John."

"Can't be that difficult; ye've been doin' it for the past weeks."

"Tell you what, mate: why don't I play rhythm guitar tonight, and you use me new bass. Then you can tell me how easy it is to play chords arse over tit." Paul placed his hands on his hips and bored his gaze into John's. "Well?"

"He's right y'know, I tried. It's really hard when the strings are the wrong way 'round," George chimed in.

If looks could kill, poor George would have dropped dead at the spot. "Nobody asked you, Hazza."

"So? I'll speak when I feel like it, and I'll shut up when I don't feel like talking. I don't need you to tell me what to do, John." It was plain to see Paul wasn't the only one utterly fed up with John's moods. "Paul, I think your bass is a cracker. That violin shape is gear, mate. I was wonderin' which model you got. It's a one-of, right?"

Paul was grateful for the support. "Ta', Geo. Yeah, they had to make one, because there weren't any lefties. I'm dead chuffed I finally got it."

"Nothin' like givin' in to some GAS, right?" George grinned, pleased at his little inside joke, and lovingly eyeing his own guitar, which was still very new too.

"If you lovebirds are done courting each other, can we get ready for the show?" John's voice rudely interrupted the warm moment of camaraderie between Paul and George.

Paul honestly tried to count to ten, but never made it past two. "Oh bugger off, John. Why do you always have to belittle people? Can't you try being nice for a change? I just spent most of me wages on a bass I didn't want in the first place, and all you can do is ridicule me?"

"Well, it looks naff," John shrugged.

"No John, it doesn't. And even if it did, ye could at least have the decency to keep that opinion to yerself and be glad I've agreed to take up the bass. I could've just said no, and left you to deal with it, y'know. Yer welcome to go out and buy me a nice one-hundred quid Fender if you like those better. But until you do, I suggest you shut yer gob. If you can't, I'll gladly lend a hand with that. In fact, I'm itching to, right now. So what's it going to be?" By the time he finished his rant, Paul stood right in front of John, just inches apart, staring daggers at his opponent. John opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind. He turned his back and walked towards the stage, where Pete was tottering about his drum kit.

George and Paul stared at each other in disbelief. "I can't believe me eyes, Paul. Did you just make John bail with his tail between his legs?" Paul looked in John's direction and then back to George, "Looks like, yeah. I didn't think I'd live to see the day." Grinning, he moved the body of his bass up near his face and tilted the neck upwards, listening intently to the sound of the strings as he tuned them.

George laughed, "Tha' makes two of us, mate. Let's hope he won't be too sour about it later." He waited for Paul to finish tuning the last string and asked, "Did ye think of a name fer it yet, Paul?

Paul raised an eyebrow, "What, for me bass? Why would I name it?"

The young guitarist nodded enthusiastically. "I name me guitars, loads of guitarists do. This," he said, gesturing at his guitar, "is Greta. I usually just look at what's on the 'eadstock and go from there. It's a Gretsch, see, so that wasn't too 'ard. If I ever get a Gibson, it'd probably be Ginny, from the first and last letters. That's how I do it, anyway."

Paul looked at his bass. "Well, the 'eadstock says Hofner. So, goin' by your formula, we'd end up with..." He bit his lip, fighting back a girlish giggle, "...Horny..?"

George guffawed, "Well, it is original, I'll give you that. Might raise some eyebrows, though." Suddenly, his face lit up. "Hey, you know what we should do? We should get twin guitars and call them Jimmy and Jemima!"

"I don't know George," Paul laughed, knowing exactly what George was referring to. "Naming our guitars after two spiders we once killed in cold blood seems a bit too much credit."

"Aye, but the lady was so fond of her Daddy Longlegs, it's the least we can do fer squashing them y'know," George declared, adopting a solemn expression, although the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. "Com'ead, best not keep the others waiting, or we'll be the ones gettin' our 'eads bashed in next."

***

"Hello Paul, happy birthday, son! I was hoping you'd call today. It's been quite a while, how have you been?"

Paul swallowed at the lump in his throat. He hadn't realised how much he needed to hear his father's voice until the moment the telephone connection was established. "Hi, dad. I'm really sorry for not calling. I'm fine, how are you and Mike doing?"

"Your brother and I are doing very well, Paul," Jim replied, "I'm afraid you've just missed Mike, he went out with some friends. I'm sure he would have wanted to talk to you. He was just saying how much he's looking forward to seeing you again and I couldn't agree more. Are you still returning next month, or has your contract been extended again?"

"No, the plans still stand. I'll be home in a fortnight, dad. But we'll be recording some songs with Tony Sheridan next week, so that's new. And I got my new bass guitar a few days ago. I'll be playing it on the record." There was a short pause before Jim spoke, "That's very exciting news, son. I'm very happy for you. But I would have expected you to be much more enthused about it. What's the matter, lad?"

Paul aimlessly twirled the phone cord before he lied, "Nothing. I'll just be happy to go home, is all. I'm knackered, and a bit depressed about not being home for my birthday." Why did his voice have to sound so flat? He knew he had been unconvincing when Jim asked, "Are you sure that's all? Because I think there's something you're not telling me. You're not in any trouble, are you?" There was an urgency in his father's voice when he added, "Please talk to me, Paul."

"No, no, trouble, dad, it's nothing like that at all. It's just... it feels like it's all going to hell The band isn't falling apart or anything, we're actually doing great. It's just that off stage, there's a lot of tension and negativity, particularly between me and one of the others." Paul quickly wiped away a solitary tear running down his face.

"I see," Jim said quietly. "Would I be correct if I were to guess the other person is called John Lennon?"

"Yeah dad, you would" Paul sighed. "Things were going well the first weeks, but we haven't been getting along at all lately. I suppose it's the pressure and everything, but I can't seem to get anything right anymore. He's constantly at my throat. But how did you know it would be me and John?"

The line went quiet for a moment, and Paul almost thought the connection had been severed when at last his father spoke again. "Because I worried something like this would happen some day. You and John are two very complicated people, having a very complicated friendship and that means issues between you will be complex as well. I understand that, better than you think. I know, son." There was enough emphasis on those last three words to get the message across, and they hit Paul like a ton of bricks. His heart was beating frantically when he muttered, "What are you talking about dad?"

"I know about you and John, son. I didn't want to say anything because I felt it would be better for you to be the one to tell me if and when you felt ready to do so, but it's very clear you need someone to talk to right now and if I'm not mistaken, you probably don't have anyone else to confide in. So if you want, you can talk to me because I know and I'm here for you."

Paul slumped against the yellow wall of the telephone box, tears now running down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. "But, dad... how?"

The voice on the other side was warm and comforting. "I've told you before, dear boy, that your arl fella has eyes and ears. I've known you for a long time. Nineteen years to the day, to be exact. How could I not see what was going on? You've been hiding it very well and I don't believe anyone else knows, but I do. It's alright, you can talk to me about it. I just wish we were having this conversation face to face so I could comfort you. I can hear you crying, son. You don't have to hide that either."

It was as if his father's encouragement had blown a hole into the dam behind which he kept his pain and fear. For the next minute or so, all Paul could do was sob while Jim kept silent, patiently waiting for his son to speak. When Paul calmed down enough to talk, he asked, "Dad? How long have you known, and why didn't you say anything?"

"I've known for nearly four years. After you met that young man, you became a different person. As a parent, I wasn't too elated about you skiving off school, smoking, and turning into a Teddy boy. But John also brought out the best in you. After your mother died, something inside you withered, and John brought it back to life. And if I'm not mistaken, you bring out the best in John too. It wasn't easy to see you falling for a boy, but what the two of you share is more valuable than traditional mores." Jim took a deep breath. Paul noticed the quiver in his father's breath and realised he was crying too. Still, his voice was steady when he continued, "I never said anything because I felt it was a very private thing, and I assumed you would tell me yourself some day. And frankly, I don't think you yourself were aware of your feelings for a long time. But surely you must recall our conversation from a few months ago, when I said you could talk to me about anything? I didn't just mean music and drugs, Paul. Yes, I know about that too," he said when Paul gasped involuntarily, "and I really wish you wouldn't indulge in such destructive behaviour. But what I also meant, is that you don't have to hide your love from me. Your secret is safe with me, lad. So, do you want to talk about what's got you so upset?"

Paul heaved a deep sigh. "Yeah dad, I think I do..."


	8. Chapter 8

Paul wasn't exactly sure how long he had spoken to his father, but he knew it was long enough to skyrocket the McCartney's telephone bill, and also long enough to leave his bottom completely numb from sitting on the cold, hard floor. Some time during the conversation, company had showed up in the form of the fat calico cat that frequented their part of the Reeperbahn. Lucy, as John and George had decided to call her, inspired by one of their favourite songs 'Lucille', jumped through the gap in the side of the telephone box where a pane of glass used to be, and lovingly rubbed her body against Paul's legs as if she sensed he needed some affection.

The moment he reached out to scratch her head, she unapologetically climbed onto his lap where she made herself comfortable, purring loudly and blinking slowly at the boy. Though Paul preferred dogs over cats, it comforted him to run his fingers through the beautifully patterned fur. The warm weight of the cat's body, as well as the sound of his father's voice, made him feel calmer than he had in weeks. When the telephone call ended, he gratefully hugged Lucy who stoically allowed him to bury his face into her black, orange, and white coat.

When Paul got up to return to the club, Lucy seemed to decide her job was done, as she gave him one last head bunt before strutting off with her tail held high. Paul watched her until she disappeared around a corner of the deserted street, and then walked in the opposite direction towards the club. He still felt rather miserable, but the unexpected display of camaraderie made him smile through his tears. Somehow, Lucy's presence had soothed him, almost like his mother's hugs had been when he was a little child. The comparison made him feel a bit silly; how could be possibly compare his mother's love to the attention of an alleycat, however comforting that had been? He shrugged the thought off and sauntered back to the Top Ten Club, listening to the echo of his footsteps in the quiet Reeperbahn.

It was early in the afternoon when he snuck into the attic they called home whilst staying in Hamburg. The words 'Please, nobody see me' repeated themselves over and over in his head like a mantra. It almost seemed to work too - almost. The place was eerily silent and seemed to be deserted. But just before Paul could disappear into the safety of the bathroom, George appeared out of nowhere like a Jack-in-the-box, cheerfully shouting, "Ey up, wack! Alright, Paul? Been lookin' fer ye everywhere!". It would have been comical if Paul hadn't been trying to avoid this very situation.

"Well, ye found me, George. Anything I can help you with, mate?" He didn't face his friend, but continued towards his intended goal, where he drew some cold water from the faucet. He was just about to bend over and wash his face when George met his gaze in the mirror. "Jus' wanted to wish you a happy bir-" George's eyes flew wide open at the dishevelled state of Paul's face. "Bloody hell, what's happened to you?" Then, after a slight hesitation, "Have ye been cryin'?"

For a moment, Paul found himself at a loss for words. He obviously couldn't tell George about the things he had discussed with his dad, but he also didn't want his friend to think he'd been weeping for no specific reason, so he searched for a viable excuse that would explain his messed up state. He didn't know for sure if his encounter with Lucy gave him the idea, but before he could stop himself from telling one of the lamest lies he ever came up with he blurted out, "Our moggy died..."

Paul reckoned George knew the McCartneys didn't have a cat, but his expression indicated he didn't. A wave of guilt washed over Paul as he watched the eyes of his band mate mist over. He knew very well that George considered the loss of a pet a perfectly good reason to cry, so his lie solved that problem, but Paul certainly didn't want his friend to get upset over a non-existing moggy. Before he could chastise himself too much, Paul found himself enveloped in a tight hug, which George followed up with the suggestion to go out for a drink or two. So naturally, they spent the rest of the afternoon telling each other stories, and drinking so much they were both utterly kaylied by the time they showed up for that night's performance.

Halfway through Young Blood, George thrust his guitar at John - who was standing nearest and didn't look too pleased with the two drunkards' shoddy performance - and he had disappeared in the direction of the loo, where he spent the next minutes throwing up. Paul felt more than a little nauseous himself, but that had less to do with alcohol overindulgence than it did with the fear about how John would react to is decision. By the time they were done for the night, Paul was feeling terribly hungover, and George was looking positively miserable. The youngest member of the band disappeared as soon as the last chord was played, and they hadn't seen him again. Pete didn't stick around either, and Paul started to speak the moment he was alone with John, afraid he might lose his nerve if he waited. Now that he was about to tell John about the conclusion he had reached, he hoped John would listen and understand.

***

..."It's doin' me 'head in, John. I love you, but I hate how fucked up it's been between us lately." Paul sank onto the nearest amp and buried his face in his hands. Telling John how he felt was incredibly hard, especially feeling like a construction crew was attempting to drill holes into his skull, and now that the word was out, he felt utterly deflated.

"Hypocrite."

The three syllables sent a violent shiver up Paul's spine. Momentarily forgetting about his hangover, he raised his head to face John. The eyes looking back at him were brimming with something he guessed was anger, but it could be something else. Disappointment, perhaps?

"Now that you're done chinwaggin' about all the stuff I've done wrong, are you also going to mention your own role in all this, Paul?" John brandished an accusing finger at Paul's face. "Christ, do you have any idea how annoying you can be, locking people out all the time? Always hiding behind that fucking Mona Lisa smile when things get personal, always leaving everyone else guessing what you really think."

John shook his head, looking somewhat lost, "You're accusing me of pushing you away? Well, take a good look at yerself, because yer doin' the same fucking thing. I've treated you like shit, you're right, and I'm sorry. But you shut me out completely and that just gets on my tits like you wouldn't believe. I rather have a barney than that indifference of yours."

The room fell silent as Paul tried to wrap his head about what just happened. How did he manage to become the accused all of a sudden? That wasn't how he imagined the conversation to go at all. 'Did you really expect John to cry mea culpa and beg for forgiveness?' A little voice inside his head forced Paul into some introspection. Yes, part of him had hoped that. Usually, Paul was open to whatever his conscience tried to tell him. That moment however, he didn't really feel like listening to his inner voice, even though deep down he knew John had a point. He didn't want to think too much about his own mistakes; he felt too sorry for himself for that.

"I wouldn't have to hide my feelings if you'd take them seriously, would I?" He protested. His conscience be damned, he wasn't going to let this go so easily. "You'll use anything against me, John. Remember my bass, how you were quick to make me feel two feet tall about that? And that's just one example." He blinked back the tears that were prickling behind his eyes. 'Not now,' he thought, 'I've done enough of that today.'

"Besides," he continued, "You've been swervin' on me lately anyroad. Why should I pour my heart out to you when you can't be arsed to spend time with me? You're always hangin' out with the Exis now; when's the last time you even tried to be alone with me? How can you accuse me of shutting you out when you're not even here?"

"Darrafact? And where were you this morning? I was here; even Stu came by to wish you a happy birthday, but you bailed, didn't you? Looks like you and George went on a pretty good bender. Did you even think of me when you pissed off?"

"I didn't piss off," Paul sighed, "not really, anyway". He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that made him sound so strangled. "I only meant to be gone for a little while, to call me da'. How was I supposed to know I'd end up cryin' my eyes out over this fucking situation between us?" The confession hung between them like a thick blanket of conflicting emotions, threatening to smother them both.

"Don't look at me like that; I didn't spill our secret. I don't go around breaking my promises, John. I even blagged George when he asked me what was wrong. I'm not lookin' to go public with this either y'know," Paul declared when he saw the look of disbelief on John's face. "He figured it out on his own, actually. He said he's known for years. But I'm glad about it, it was good to talk to someone who wouldn't make fun of me for cryin'."

"I wouldn't have done that, Paul" The sudden change in John's demeanour surprised Paul, and for a moment, he thought he saw tears shimmering in his mate's eyes too. "I wish you would have said something sooner; I wouldn't have been so hard on you if I knew you'd take it like this. I'm not a monster, you know." John shook his head, "Aren't we just the biggest pair of bloody gobsmites you've ever seen..."

"I know man," Paul nodded. "Stupid, isn't it? We need to break the cycle, John. If we keep this up, we'll lose everything. Not just this thing between us, but our friendship, the band, everything. That's what I've been trying to say. Unless we go back to square one and rebuild or relationship on trust, it's all going to go to hell."

"But that's the part I don't get," John disputed, sounding annoyed all over again. "I'll admit to being a rotter. I wanted to make you show your emotions and I went about it all wrong, I get that. And I'm truly sorry for that, Paul. But what I don't see is why the hell we should go back to being just mates. I'm sorry son, it doesn't seem logical. Now that we know what we're doing wrong, can't we just not do that anymore?"

Paul just sat there, listening to John's agitated rant.

"You pretend to know it all so well, but can you back it up with a decent theory or is this another example of you thinking you've got it all figured out? Well, isn't that just so typical," John snarled, seemingly oblivious to his previous apology. "You can't have it both ways, Paul. Either you dump a bloke or you don't, but people don't go from being in love to just being mates like that. Even you can't be that naive!"

The sneer hurt, but it also fuelled Paul's fighting spirit. "We're not people, John," he countered, adding air quotes to the word 'people'. "We're us, and I for one don't care what 'people' do. I only care about you and me. The ways things have been going lately, I have thought about ending it completely. But even though I don't see myself snogging you like nothing happened any time soon, I'd like to think we can get back what we had if we work on it. If you prefer to take the easy way out and binbag me, just say the word and I'll leave you be." Paul squeezed his eyes shut to ease the throbbing in his head. Fighting back the urge to throw up, he cursed himself for blowing up like he had. When he dared look again, he noticed John looked somewhat defeated. Paul lowered his voice and tried one more time to explain.

"We can't build anything good on a bad foundation, John. It might work for a little while, but it'd be like stitching up a cut without cleaning it first - it'd look okay f the outside, but it'd only get worse underneath. I don't want us to reach the point where it can't be healed anymore, do you?"

John seemed to slowly come to terms with what Paul was trying to say. "No, I don't." He sighed deeply. "But I don't know if I can change, Paul. I've gotten so used to everyone always bailin' on me, you know. It hurts when you put on that mask, it feels like you're abandoning me a little each time you hide your feelings from me. How can I be sure you won't bugger off completely? Maybe part of me wanted to beat you to it." The last words had been barely a whisper, he might as well have shouted, for the message was crystal clear. Paul quietly got up and sat down next to John.

"Look at me, John. I'm here, now. I'm not going to desert you. But something's got to change. I can't imagine my life without you in it, and if that means just being friends for a while, then I'm willing to do that. Aren't you?"

John finally shook his head and swallowed. "I don't want us to just be friends Paul, that's not enough for me. Now that we're together, I can't settle for anything less." He stared at the tips of his cowboy boots and sighed before he continued, "But I think I can give it a try, as long as it's not forever. I can't just switch my feelings off like that." A single tear ran down his face when John mumbled, "What if I won't be able to change? I don't wanna lose you."

Paul pulled John into his arms and held him close. "Don't talk like that, John. Don't give up before we even started. We fucked it up together and we can work it out together, alright?"

Eventually, John nodded, wiping his face and managing a lopsided smile. "Alright then, we'll try it your way." Some of this wit resurfaced when he added, "I'm warning you though: I will not rest until I win you back."

Paul let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, I expect no less of you. You can be very persuasive when you've got your mind set on something, y'know."

"Tell me something I don't know,"

"According to George's theory, I should name me bass 'Horny'."

"Yer a daft sod Macca," John grinned. "Now get yer arse up to bed an' get yer beauty sleep. Ye can't expect me to chase after ye lookin' this grotty, luv!"

***

30 September 1961

"Writing anything good?"

Paul nearly jumped out of his skin. He was sat on his bed, wearing his pyjamas, completely focused on the song he was working on. He'd woken up early with the outline of the tune in his head, and now it was nearly done. He vaguely gestured in the direction of the pile of clothes that hid the chair in the corner as an invitation for John to come in, and resumed penning down chord suggestions underneath the lyrics.

"Must be a cracker if ye can't even stop working on it for two minutes," John grinned. "Why don't you be a good lad and sing it to me, Paulie?" Paul shook his head and mumbled, "Can't. It's not done yet. Maybe I'll play it tonight, if you let me finish it first."

The next thing Paul knew, John snatched the piece of paper out from under his hands and held it high above his head, trying to read the lyrics whilst keeping the paper out of Paul's reach. Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing his glasses and no amount of squinting could help him decipher the words, so he simply threw Paul a mischievous smile. "You won't, you know. Now, tell me about this song and I might give it back. You can start with the title."

"You do realise I'm taller than you, don't you?"

John gasped dramatically and cried, "No, when'd that happen? You were always such a wee lad!"

Paul got up from the bed and grabbed at the lyric sheet, chuckling at John's frantic efforts to stop him. Cheering triumphantly, he quickly stole back the now very much crumpled piece of paper. "It's called 'I'll be on my way', if you must know. And why won't I play it tonight?"

John's face lit up at Paul's reply. "Because I'll be the title of your song. And so will you, I hope." He looked mighty pleased at the pun, but it took Paul a moment to catch on. "You'll be the title... " He wrinkled his nose and stared blankly at the lyric sheet, feeling the answer was right in front of him. Then the dots connected. "You'll be on your way... and so will I? On our way where?"

"How does Spain sound?" John's eyes sparkled. "Me uncle sent me a hundred quid for me birthday. Can you believe that? I reckon we should go on holiday, you and I. What'd you say?" For the second time in less than a minute, Paul found himself rather confused by John's words. "On holiday? But we've got a gig tonight. We can't just up and leave.... can we?"

"I don't see why not. While you were up here, stinking up the place, I was downstairs talking the arl fella into allowing you to go on holiday with me." John looked extremely pleased with himself. He ignored Paul's indignant "I don't stink!" and rambled on, "He wasn't havin' it at first, mind. Went on and on about responsibilities, and how it wasn't right to just swerve on the others and bugger off." He jumped into an eerily accurate impression of Jim McCartney, saying "If you and Paul want to be serious musicians, you can't walk out of your commitments whenever you feel like having fun, John."

"Ooh, let me guess," Paul chuckled, "Then he said that if I were to go with you without his permission, I wouldn't have to bother coming back to this house?" He could almost hear his father's threat to kick him out. John's belly laugh filled the room. "You must be psychic, because he did say something along those lines, actually."

"So," Paul gloated, "then I can play this song tonight. Unless there's something you haven't told me yet,"

"There is, and I'll tell you if you let me, so shurrup will you!" John plopped down on the bed, positively beaming. "I've made him change his mind, see. Told him that I take full responsibility for any consequences this might have, and that it was all my idea, and that he should let you go because you've been through a lot because of me, and that I want to make it up to you."

After a short pause, John's demeanour had become much more earnest. "We talked quite a long time, really. It was good to talk to someone other than you about us. I should've done that when we got back from Hamburg, like you suggested. Anyroad, he still thinks we ought to give the lads a few days' notice, but he won't stop us if we go and he won't kick you out on your arse." Just like that, he was all smiles again. "So, I say we leave right now. That is, if you're keen."

Barely an hour later, the two deserters were walking the streets of Liverpool, each carrying a large kit bag full of clothes on their backs, and a bag of butties, courtesy of Jim McCartney, who had already guessed they'd be taking off immediately. "You know what we should do?" Paul mused, as they were trudging along, "We should get something that'll draw attention so they'll stop for us. We need a gimmick, like a flag, or a silly shirt, or..."

"...Bowler hats?" John interrupted, pointing at the shop they were passing. "How about we each get one of those? I bet you'd look great in one," he added with a mischievous smile. Paul couldn't suppress a faint blush, which only made John more amused. "Sack it la'," he scowled, jabbing John in the ribs. "But yeah, these'll do."

***

"....Excuse me?!"

"You heard me. Now hurry up before I change my mind and take yo to the police instead."

Paul didn't know whether to be angry or afraid, but he definitely knew John and he had landed themselves in a prickly situation. He gently nudged John. "Wake up la', it's time to go."

He could just kick himself for being so careless. The first day of their adventure had gone so well: just a tip of their hats would be enough to earn them a lift, and their charm had done the rest. John had come up with a silly story about the Nerk twins, which most drivers found very entertaining - bar for one or two stick-in-the-muds who thought it inappropriate - and the further they got from the Pool, the taller the tale became. By the time the ginger-haired bloke called Gus had waved them goodbye at Hook of Holland, the story had evolved into nothing short of a soap opera, for they claimed to actually be twins who were fathered twenty years ago by two different men because their mum had seized the day a bit too much during the war, separated at birth and being taken by each other's dads because they couldn't tell the difference. According to the story, they grew up just streets apart, riding on the same bus to school without knowing who the other was, only to be reunited as young lads after a death bed confession. So of course now they had to make up for lost time and maybe find their mum too, who was now doing something obscure in Spain - they hadn't really developed that part of the story yet - and because they were skint, they had no choice but to thumb a lift and they were ever so grateful for being taken a bit closer to dear old mum...

It had all gone so well, it was too good to be true. Paul went over the past few hours. It had been late by the time they got into the lorry that would take them into Belgium. The driver seemed kind enough, though not the type of person to appreciate their terrible tale of woe, so they only said something about being brothers. Still, Paul thought, he obviously became careless. There was no blaming John for this one; he had fallen asleep less than an hour into the journey. Granted, he had been faking it at first, hamming it up with his head on Paul's shoulder. But Paul had enjoyed it and humoured John because frankly - it felt good to be reaching some level of intimacy again. When his own eyelids got heavy too, it had been his choice to bury his cheek in John's hair, and when John had tangled their hands together and sighed his name in a way that made him blush, Paul hadn't done anything about it, believing the driver wouldn't notice or think anything of it. How could he be so stupid to think he'd get away with it?

"What's happening? Why have we stopped?"

Paul looked into John's bleary eyes. "We're being kicked out. Come on, let's go."

"Ye wha? Why, are we there already?"

He sighed deeply, trying to stay composed. He showed John their hands, and grumbled, "We've offended our driver, John. We either get out here or he'll take us to the bizzies."

"What, for tha'?" John's incredulous remark echoed Paul's feelings. He thought people shouldn't take issue with something as innocuous as two blokes holding hands, but they did. And they knew people would, Paul chastised himself. It was the very reason they had to hide their love away.

"For that, yes," the driver hissed at John. "Don't think I don't know what you are. I heard you say his name; brothers don't speak like that!" Paul cringed at the disgust dripping from the word 'that'. "It's an abomination, and I won't put up with it. You should be glad I don't report his sodomy. But if you don't get out now, I will."

John's voice was deceptively low when he said, "You think two blokes holdin' hands is sodomy, do ye? Then let's see what you make of this," he growled, before placing a hand behind Paul's head and kissing him. Paul thought about pulling away for approximately one second, then thought to himself 'sod it,' and went with it. With his left hand, he pulled at John's hair as he kissed back aggressively, whilst the other hand found its way up his mate's thigh.

Next thing they knew, they stood on the asphalt, staring daggers at the rear lights that slowly disappeared into the night. Paul turned to face John, feeling something unstoppable bubble up from somewhere in the pit of his stomach, making his lips tremble.

"What?"

He didn't get an answer, for Paul couldn't say much of anything if he wanted to. He pressed his lips together, trying to control himself, but it was too late. It started with a sniffle, and before he could push it back, tears were streaming down his face.

John looked at him awkwardly, clearly confused. "What?"

Paul doubled over and clutched his sides, trying to catch his breath, unable to stop laughing. "That bloke," he snorted, the pitch of his voice an octave higher than normal, "his face... when.... when...." He looked away, struggling to finish his incoherent sentence. He knew he wouldn't be able to utter another word looking at John, "when you..... kissed me," he finally managed to gasp. "That... was fucking priceless, man!" The sound of John's howling laughter joined his own, echoing loudly through the stillness of the night.

Just as Paul was regaining his composure, John blurted out a spot-on imitation of Martin, which made him scream with laughter all over again. "Stop, or I'll piss my drainies," he shrieked, clutching John's shoulder for balance.

Eventually, John was the first to calm down enough to speak. "What time is it?"

Paul sniffled and wiped his eyes before checking his wristwatch. still a bit quavery, he answered, "Nearly 2 AM. What do you suppose we do now?" He looked around at the deserted place, which consisted of tiny shop which was obviously closed, two petrol pumps, and a small parking lot with a wooden picnic table.

"We wait, of course." John shrugged, and made a beeline for the parking lot. "Not much else we can do, is there? I haven't a clue as to where we are, but I'm sure someone who does will show up some time." He sat himself down on the table, gesturing for Paul to do the same and sticking his head into his kit bag. "I think I've got a bag of crisps in here somewhere..." Seconds later, he remerged with a sheepish grin on his face. "Oh look, they're all crushed. Oh well, should taste fine just the same." He tore the bag open and suddenly started laughing again. "Was I really calling your name?"

Paul grinned, "You were, y'know. I nearly thought you did it on purpose, considering the way you've been trying to get into me bloomers lately."

John guffawed, "So you noticed that, have you? Is it working?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out, son. Now, giz some of that scran, will ye?"

***

Paul awoke hours later, shivering in the cold and damp October dawn. He distinctly remembered nodding off sitting back to back with John, but he reckoned he must have fallen over in his sleep, for he was lying on his side now. His toes were freezing and the hard surface felt quite uncomfortable against his joints, but his head was resting on something warm, soft and familiar. "John, why am I lying in your lap?"

Without missing a beat, John rebutted matter-of-factly, "Since when does a bloke need a reason to have his best mate's head between his thighs?" The sound of Paul's belly laugh rang loudly in the silence of the early morning. He sat up with a loud grunt, his back stiff as a board. As he yawned and stretched, something black slid off his shoulders: John's jacket. He froze midway to handing it back and failed to suppress a chuckle. John bore a striking resemblance to the Michelin man, wearing at least four jumpers, one of which Paul immediately recognised as the one he got from his auntie Jin last Christmas.

"I was cold," John shrugged. "I got up to water the flowers. I didn't want to wake you when I got back, and I couldn't sleep anyroad, not with you chattering yer teeth all the time."

"So you just put on all the clothes we brought?"

"Got bored, didn't I? And besides, I needed an extra jumper after giving my jacket to you." He pointed a finger at the way his breath turned to fog. "It's baltic out here!" A smile was tugging at the corners of John's mouth. "After the first one, I just reckoned it'd be fun to see how many layers I could fit into. I bet that if you punched me right now, I wouldn't feel a thing. Go'ead, try it!"

Paul swatted halfheartedly in the direction of John's arm, before rummaging through his now half empty kit bag. "Didn't I have a bottle of coke in here?"

John's froze midway through pulling off the outermost jumper and his face turned scarlet. "Not since shortly after you dozed off, mate. Come to think of it, that's probably the reason I had to piss, right? I'll buy you a new one when that shop opens, which..." he grabbed Paul's wrist and looked at his watch, "...should be very soon." He pointed at the car appearing around the distant bend in the road. "That's probably the shop owner right there."

Paul jabbed John in the ribs and shoved two of his jumpers back in his bag. "Throw in some scran and we're even. I'm starving!"

***

"No, don't get up. Just keep reading that newspaper." John jumped up from the room's only chair, and grabbed the photo camera. Paul grinned and continued to peer at the front page of the French paper he couldn't read.

He was sat on their hotel room's toilet bowl, dressed in black from head to toe, and wearing his bowler hat, waiting for John to finish getting ready to go out. They had been in Paris a few days now, and that's where they had decided to stay for the duration of their holiday. It had taken them nearly four days to get to the French capital, at which time neither of them felt like continuing on to Spain anymore, especially since they'd have to work to afford the journey, and who in their right minds would work whilst on holiday? So they found a small hotel room, which had just one single bed, but it was all they could afford. There was an abundance of leaf-patterned fabric present in the room: the curtains, the sheets, and even the wall surrounding the bed was covered in the same material. For some reason, the sink was right inside the room, as was the W.C., which Paul was currently using as a chair.

"You're not seriously going to take a photo of me sitting on the lav, are you? Who wants to see that?" Paul assumed John had been joking, until he saw the camera being aimed at him. "I want to see that, now shut up and go back to yer readin'," John commanded, as he turned the lens around until his subject was in focus. "Done", he grinned a moment later, reaching for his coat. "Are you coming? Let's check out Montmartre today."

Slurping shamelessly, Paul finished his banana milkshake. John and he were sat outside a small bistro, resting their feet and chatting a mile a minute about all the great works of art they'd seen so far. John was just explaining his thoughts on a specific set of sketches they had both been interested in, when Paul suddenly sat up straight, his attention drawn to someone walking in their direction.

"Eh up Jurgen, is that you, mate?" Paul unceremoniously interrupted John's monologue and frantically waved at the person he just yelled at. Their German friend stopped in his tracks and looked in their direction, grinning from ear to ear when he saw who had called his name. John caught on, and gestured for Jurgen to join them at their table.

"Paul, John, how nice to see you," Jurgen beamed. "What a coincidence to see you here! How are you doing, friends?"

Before long, the three of them were engrossed in conversation, when John suddenly remarked, "I see you're still with the Exis, then, gesturing at Jurgen's telltale outfit and haircut. He chuckled, "I like your hair, man. Reminds me of Hitler."

"John!" Paul gasped, slightly embarrassed by his friend's comment. Then, as Jurgen started to laugh, he chuckled and admitted, "Well, I suppose it does look a bit like that, only longer, isn't it?" It occurred to him the haircut looked a lot like the one Astrid had given Stuart earlier that year. Except, this looked different; better. He wondered how such a hairstyle would look on him. At the very least, it'd be a drastic change from the ducktails he'd worn for the past years.

It was as if John had read his mind, because he suddenly blurted out, "We should do our hair like that, Paul. We can get George and Pete to cut their hair too; it'd be our thing, something that sets us apart from the other bands." He turned to their friend, "Jurgen, would you cut our hair like yours?"

Jurgen looked from one to the other, his face the living image of doubt. "I like your rock and roll haircut, I think you should keep that. It looks so good on you!"

"Oh come on, man. If it looks naff, we can always grow it out again. It's only hair, it's not a big deal." John pleaded. "Let's just do it, it'll be fun." Paul nodded vigorously to support John's request. If anything, Jurgen's haircut looked like it was a lot less work than their quiffs, which required ample amounts of vaseline to stay in place. Having hair that actually moved might be nice for a chance.

Finally, Jurgen agreed and lead them to his room on the left bank, where they quickly washed the grease out of their mane before their barber-for-a-day friend went about his task with a bulky pair of scissors. If anything, the result proved their friend was not experienced at cutting hair. Their fringes were slightly uneven and a bit shorter than they thought it would be. It also didn't fall to the side like Jurgen's did, but Paul thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to not have a Hitler hairstyle. All in all, he was of the opinion that it looked really cool.

John and Paul looked at each other with identical stupid grins on their faces. 'We look identical," John laughed. Paul threw his arm around John's shoulder and guffawed, "Of course we do, John: we're the Nerk twins!"

***

It was still very early in the morning when Paul woke up on the ninth of October. He realised he must have managed to turn around in the narrow space his body was occupying, because John and he were facing each other. In fact, Paul's face was nestled against John's neck, and his hand was resting against John's back. Even their legs were tangled together: one very hairy knee lodged between two not-quite-as-hairy ones. John was still fast asleep, his breathing deep and his heart beat a slow rhythm against Paul's chest. Very careful so that John wouldn't wake up, Paul climbed out of bed to answer the call of nature.

Instead of returning to bed, he sat down on the room's only chair and watched John's sleeping form, allowing his mind to wander. A smile crept upon his face as memories came rushing back to him; memories of all that happened in the past few months. Paul chuckled softly at the way John had went about trying to make things better. There had been sincere apologies, relentless flirting, long conversations, and even half a bar of chocolate, just like that day years ago, when they first became friends. Out of all the ways in which John had tried to show his good intentions, sharing his beloved chocolate was probably the most symbolic. It occurred to Paul that for a pair of Northern Men, they sure could be sentimental.

There had been difficult moments too; it hadn't been smooth sailing all the way. Paul had found it very hard to put his guard down, and he hadn't always taken it very well when John confronted him about 'closing his fucking shutters again'. But then, he had blown up at John a few times too, and not always for good reason if he was perfectly honest. All things considering, they had made great progress, and he found himself thinking more and more about how much he really wanted to kiss John, who was blissfully unaware that Paul had just photographed him.

Paul quietly put the camera back down and he slipped back into the bed, shifting carefully until he was face to face with John once more. His fingertips traced John's features with a feathery touch; across the bushy eyebrows, down to the long eyelashes resting peacefully on the slightly rosy cheeks. Down the ridge of the aquiline nose to the lips he thought about so much lately, down to the ginger stubble, across the freckles on his shoulders, and back up towards the earlobes that were so sensitive, even the slightest nibble would draw a feral groan from their owner. Paul realised the time had come to decide which way to go. His heart knew exactly what it wanted, but was his mind ready to throw caution to the wind and just leap? For now, he thought as he interrupted his caresses and closed his eyes, he needed to kip some more.

***

Paul leaned against the hotel room door, biting down hard on his bottom lip in an attempt to stop himself from being reduced to giggles. The scene playing out in front of him definitely made it very hard not to laugh.

John was halfway through stripping off the ridiculous pantaloons they'd bought earlier that afternoon. They'd noticed them over the previous days, but it wasn't until they were munching on their hamburgers - their lunch of choice that day, and Paul's treat for a change - that they really paid any real attention to the peculiar garments. The trousers, which were tight at the top and very wide at the bottom, had looked so cool and artsy on the Parisians they'd seen strutting about, they hadn't wasted any time getting a pair each. They had dropped by their room to change into the pantaloons and immediately left again to show them off, feeling proud of their level of integration into the local culture. But before long, they'd looked at each other and asked, "Do you like how these kecks flap about? I miss me drainies." So they quickly returned to their room, ready to wield needle and thread and turn those 50" trouser legs into nice 16" drainpipes. They loved being fashionable, up to point!

By the looks of it, John had been so eager to get out of the pantaloons, he had neglected to take off his shoes first. Paul chuckled as John hopped about the room, his feet hopelessly stuck in the upper part of the trousers. Eventually, he lost his balance and fell face first onto the bed with a muffled "Oomph!", where he struggled around and threw a sheepish grin at Paul. "Won't ye please help me?"

Paul obliged, trying not to laugh too much. After somewhat of a struggle - John's really managed to lodge his feet in there - one shoe fell to the floor, then the other, and finally the offending piece of clothing met the same fate. He kicked off his own shoes too, and sat down on the bed next to John. It occurred to Paul that his doubts must have ended up somewhere down there too, because his mind was very much made up when he reached out his hand. He gently cupped John's cheek and sought his gaze until finally, hazel eyes locked with brown ones. Paul brought his hands to the collar of John's jacket and slowly slid the garment off his shoulders until gravity took over it slide to the floor with a soft thud, which to Paul underlined the finality of his decision.

***

He hadn't consciously decided to go all the way, and John obviously hadn't either. But once Paul opened up his heart, stopping was no longer an option. He was scared of the unknown - but it didn't hold him back. There was quite a bit of fumbling, nervous giggles, and shy whispers - and neither had been bothered by it because it just felt right. It wasn't necessarily good at first, but it definitely wasn't bad either. It had just been - in a word - new. All the pent up emotions had found their way to the surface, causing Paul to almost fall over the edge, and it had taken every last bit of self restraint to stop himself from falling apart straightaway.

At some point, John had done something - or hit something - that had literally made Paul's toes curl. Whatever it was before, it was good then. He vaguely remembered crying out, digging his fingertips in John's flesh and wanting - needing - to be as close to him as he could get, desiring more of whatever it was that felt so right. Despite his best efforts, he hadn't lasted as long as his ego would normally consider acceptable. But then again, everything about it was far from what Paul had known to be normal. As he felt himself getting closer, his hands and feet started to tingle icy hot, and his muscles tensed. And then he had come undone in a way he never thought possible: his body had gone rigid as the release surged through him like electricity, and his breath had gotten caught somewhere in his throat. As John landed at his side, the sound of two men gasping was all either could hear, and it had taken a little while for Paul to stop feeling like he was afloat.

"Bloody hell..."

"Quite."

"Let's do it again."

Paul turned his head and threw John an incredulous glance. "Come again?"

"Yes please," John jested, laughing at the unintended pun.

Paul guffawed and jabbed his elbow into John's side. "Git," he quipped affectionately as John pulled him close.

"You know what this means, right," John grinned.

Paul nuzzled his neck, his eyes closed. "What's that, Johnny?"

John sighed contently, lazily drawing circles on Paul's back with the tips of his fingers. "It means we're as queer as a nine bob note," he murmured.

Paul smiled against John's neck. "Is right, mate, completely bent."

"A pair of arse bandits."

"Shirtlifters..."

"Two fruits!"

"Sounds about right, Paul giggled. But I'm only a fruit for you." Whatever John said next was lost on Paul, who drifted off into a deep slumber, his smile still etched on his face.

***

12 October 1961

"Leg it will ye, we'll miss the train!"

Paul slammed his bowler hat onto his head, hoping it wouldn't fall off and make him retrieve it again. He hitched his bag higher up his shoulder and ran as fast as he could, trying to catch up with John who was hurtling ahead, zig-zagging across the platform in order to avoid knocking anyone over.

"That was close," he panted, shoving his kit bag in the overhead baggage rack and crashing down on the seat next to John. The train station was already behind them, as they had only just managed to jump onto the train seconds before it started to move. By the time they found an empty compartment, the train had already picked up speed. Paul pulled a face and clutched the stitch in his side, "I haven't run this fast since we stole that harmonica last year. You know, in Holland."

"Of course I know, it's not like I've ever stolen another one, you know. And besides, we didn't steal it," John quipped, "we liberated it!". He reached up and knocked Paul's hat across the compartment. "What kind of divvy goes back for a bleedin' blocker anyroad? You know they still sell those things in England, right? It's not like we got the last ones, you know!"

"A sentimental one, I suppose," Paul grinned. "I'm going to keep it, you know, because it reminds me of our time here in Paris."

"Aye, yer a soft lad alright." He winked and leant in for a kiss. "But you know what, Macca? It must be rubbin' off on me, because I reckon I might hang on to mine too. C'mere."

It was nice to sit there, cuddled up together and looking out the window, watching the landscape change as they made their way up north. Every now and again, they'd speak quietly about the past weeks. Before long, the sun turned a glorious shade of red, transforming the sky and the hills outside into a hypnotising display of pinks, oranges, and purples. Paul took it all in, trying to burn the memory into his retinas, never wanting to forget how the setting sun reflected in John's eyes, or how his auburn locks became a deep, vibrant shade of copper when the light touched them. He wished he could stop time, so the moment would never have to end.

When daylight finally faded, John lazily rose to his feet and scooted towards the door, sliding it shut and securing the latch so that nobody would be able to get in. Then, he looked over his shoulder at Paul, winked mischievously, and slowly drew the slightly outdated, velvet curtains closed. "It must be bedtime somewhere, don't you reckon?"

Paul giggled nervously, not sure if he felt quite adventurous enough to do anything requiring that level of privacy on something as public as a train. Still, he didn't protest when John pulled him into his arms, whispering hoarsely, "You have no idea how fucking beautiful you look right now..." When John's lips descended upon his, Paul kissed back hungrily, no longer really caring about anything other than being as close to John as he possibly could.

Just as John was turning his attention to the removal of their trousers, a voice rang through the narrow hallway of the train: "Billets s'il vous plait!". Paul nearly jumped out of his skin, his heart pummeling against his rib cage. They couldn't have gotten to the border yet, could they? The voice was outside their compartment now. "Billets et passeports, s'il vous plait!" There was a knock on the door, "Ouvrez la porte!" Paul looked around in John's direction, but the compartment was now enveloped in darkness and he couldn't see his lover anymore. The next moment, a loud crash startled Paul so much, he tumbled off his seat and fell...


	9. Chapter 9

8 September 1988

The sensation of falling made Paul squeeze his eyes shut until, as suddenly as it started, it stopped and everything went quiet. Or was it? Slowly, he became aware of voices and sounds.

"Hush James, you'll wake your dad with all that ruckus!"

"Sorry mum!"

Paul kept his eyes closed and listened to his surroundings. Little by little, all the little familiar noises came together to form the symphony he liked to call home: a clock ticking, a blackbird chirping in the garden, someone walking through the room, a guitar being tuned. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips when he realised he was sprawled on the sofa at Peasmarsh.

Suddenly, a soft hand gently brushed his hair away from his face and a kiss was pressed on his temple. "Welcome back, sleepyhead." Paul stretched like a cat and lifted his bleary eyes to meet Linda's. "Thanks Lin. How long was I out?" Linda leaned in for a proper kiss, followed by a playful pat on the ridge of his nose, to which Paul involuntarily scrunched up his face. "A good few hours," she replied. "We already ate, but I saved you a plate if you're hungry."

"Be right there," Paul muttered, shrugging off the plaid someone - probably Linda - had draped over him. He took his time folding the blanket, and then slowly sauntered into the kitchen where he plunked down in his usual seat, pondering the dream. He vaguely registered the plate Linda put in front of him, but didn't think to acknowledge her or the food. Instead, he simply sat there, rubbing a finger back and forth across his bottom lip as images from his dream replayed in his mind's eye.

"Penny for your thoughts!"

Linda's comment jerked Paul from his daydream. "I'm sorry Lin, what were you saying?"

She rounded the table and settled herself in his lap. "What's the matter, babe? You haven't even touched your lasagna yet. You're not coming down with something are you?" she inquired, quickly resting a hand against Paul's face to gauge his temperature. "Well, you definitely don't have a fever, so what's put you off your tea then?"

"I'm fine, I guess I'm just not that hungry," he smiled, picking up a fork and pushing the food around the plate without even attempting to eat. No sooner had the words left his mouth, or a loud rumble of his stomach broke the silence in the room.

"Yeah, I can hear that," Linda guffawed. "Come on, eat something." With an amused smile on her face, she pulled the fork out of Paul's hand and started loading it with food. "It's been a while, but I think I remember how to do this. Open up...."

"Alright, alright. You win, I'll eat," he chuckled.

"Good. Now, I'll go up and tell that son of yours to get ready for bed. If that plate isn't at least half finished by the time I'll get back, I will wield that fork like it's nobody's business and feed you, whether you like it or not."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, it's a promise," she giggled, before heading upstairs to James' room.

Left by himself in the kitchen, Paul sighed and poked aimlessly at his food. He wondered why the short interview had such a massive impact. At least he reckoned that triggered the dream and his peculiar mood. He hadn't thought much about his secret adventures with John over the past years, and now it seemed he could think of nothing else. He hoped it would just be a short-lived thing, because dealing with it as it happened had been tough enough. Reliving it all without anybody to talk to might very well be even worse.

He was the only one left to know about the affair, Paul mused as he dutifully finished his lasagna. Though he hadn't spoken all that much about it with his father after leaving Liverpool, it had always been comforting to know he could simply get on the telephone and ask for advice. And then there was that day, twelve years ago, when it was no longer possible to talk to his dad about anything at all. After that it was just him and John and for the sake of peace, they hadn't discussed the topic that much either. Of course, any chance of a conversation with John - meaningful or otherwise - was obliterated soon thereafter. Everyone who was ever told about it was gone, save for him.

Linda returned just in time to hear the deep sigh Paul heaved. She halted behind his chair and bent over to hug him. "Bad day? I'm here if you want to talk, you know."

"It's nothing serious, Lin. Just a difficult interview, put me in a bit of a funk. I'll be right as rain before you know it," he smiled, hoping to convince himself more than he was trying to appease Linda. "But thanks anyway, love. It's good to know you're here when I need you." He relaxed into the hug for a moment. "I'm going to go upstairs for a bit, see if I can get some work done." He stretched his arms over his head and wrinkled his nose at the whiff of body odour that reached his nostrils. "Might have a wash first, though."

"Aw, I like your musk," she jested, peppering butterfly kisses in the crook of his neck.

"Do you now? Well, we'll have to come up with a way to make me nice and smelly again later then," he grinned. "My back's a bit sore from sleeping on the settee too long too, so I better get that shower anyway. You know, to make sure I'm fit to get all musky again later on," he added with a wink.

"Ah, the joys of getting old," she mocked. "Better hurry up and take that shower then, old man. And could you check on James after, to see if he's gone to bed? Thanks, love."

Paul trudged upstairs to the bathroom, looking rather forward to feeling his muscles relax under the hot water. It occurred to him he was doing a lot of sighing that day, and he hoped the shower would take away some of the tension. As the hot jets pummeled his shoulders and back, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to go wander freely. The fleeting shards of memories that has been distracting him since he woke up immediately came together to finish his dream.

***

"Billets et passeports, s'il vous plait!" There was a knock on the door, "Ouvrez la porte!"

"Oh shit!"

"I'll say."

"What do we do now? We can't let that bloke see us like this!" Paul frantically tugged on his drainies, but they wouldn't budge. The only notable result was that he was breaking out in cold sweat. "I mean, I think he'll notice the state of me drainies and that" he gestured at John's bare chest, indicating the fresh love bite that was quickly taking on a vivid purplish-red hue, "might raise a few eyebrows as well." His renewed attempt to pull up his trousers resulted in him nearly toppling over.

Another knock, sounding a bit more urgent this time. "Tout va bien là-dedans? Ouvre la porte s'il vous plaît."

"Erm, oui... un moment, please!" John shrugged at Paul and hissed, "What? Your French is even worse than that, son." He answered Paul's two-fingered salute with a toothy smile. "Relax, will ye? It'll be fine; we just have to get dressed, is all." John quickly pulled a jumper over his head and tossed the other one at Paul. Apart from his tousled hair, he looked passable.

Paul quickly squeezed into the pullover before refocusing on the lower half of his outfit but between the stress and the sweat that was beginning to break out everywhere, it was no use. The tight trousers were hopelessly stuck halfway down his thighs. He clawed at his hair, making it stand on end. "Bloody hell, we're fucked!"

"Âllo?!" By the sound of it, the door was about to be forced open, lock be damned.

"I've got an idea. Quick, lie down." John threw their coats at Paul. "Covers," he whispered, as he quickly hid his messy hair underneath Paul's bowler hat. He spun around and flung their T-shirts in the same direction as the coats. "Here... Go'ead, hurry up!"

Just in time, the penny dropped. Paul balled up the T-shirts and rammed them under his head a split second before the sliding door was brusquely pulled open. The agitated conductor was greeted by the sight of a rather dishevelled looking young man wearing a bowler hat and a back-to-front jumper, and a rather feverish looking boy with black hair who appeared to be fast asleep.

"Pardon le... erm... delay, monsieur. We were... dormi you see. How can I help you?"

"Ah, vous êtes anglais. Please, presenter your tickets and passports, monsieurs." Then, after a short pause in which John gathered the requested items, the Frenchman grumbled, "Can you please wake your compagnon, monsieur? We need to confirm his identité."

"Oh please let him sleep sir," John cooed in his most charming voice. "He's feeling ill you see, must have caught a bit of the lurgy in Paris."

Paul bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. A drop of sweat tickled his face as it ran across his forehead, and he felt his cheeks flush even more than before. 'I'll get you for this John,' he thought, but pulled his best sick face, throwing in a few fake shivers for good measure.

"Qu'est ce que c'est, this 'lurgy'? Does he need un médecin - a doctor?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know how to explain it in French, monsieur. It's a drag, though. But you can see that, right? Poor bloke looks a right mess, doesn't he? I wouldn't get too close if I were you, it might be contagious. No need for a doctor though, but merci for asking." Paul had to hand it to John; only he could take the piss out of someone without them catching on.

"Bien, I shall make un exception. Les papiers are in order. Bon soir."

"Nighty night, then." John locked them in once more. "You really outshone yourself, Paulie. Ye almost had me convinced. Would've sent Hazza running all the way to Manchester with that one, you would."

"Manchester? Don't be an arl arse, mate! I thought you liked George," Paul guffawed, wiping the sweat of his face. "Man, that was close. Brilliant plan, though. I wonder where you got the idea..."

John chuckled at Paul's knowing wink. "Well, you can't act your way out of a tea bag, but you do a pretty good sick face. Anyroad, lurgy all gone then?"

"Feeling much better, ta'."

"Gear! Now, where were we..."

***

Paul had forgotten about Linda's request to check on James until the thin strip of light underneath the door reminded him. After a soft knock, he let himself into his son's bedroom, where he was greeted by a sight that made him momentarily forget the old memories that were haunting him. The boy was sat on the floor, slumped over his guitar and obviously fast asleep. "Well," Paul grinned to himself, "at least he's not staying up past his bedtime." He carefully extracted the guitar from James' hands before gently collecting him in his arms and tucking him into bed.

As his eyes fell on the calendar on which the days until Monday the 12th were being counted down with big X's,Paul wondered where the time had gone. It seemed like yesterday that he was a kid, learning his first guitar chords. And here he was, tucking in his youngest child, who was about to celebrate his 11th birthday. He gently placed a kiss on James' cheek, who drowsily opened his eyes and croaked "hi dad," before nodding right off again.

Paul smiled down at James's sleeping face and lovingly brushed the fringe of his strawberry blond bowl cut out of his eyes. More ginger than his mum, and more blond than his sister, he thought. The resemblance between the boy and himself was uncanny, but there was so much more of Linda in him than just the colour of his hair and eyes. Sadly, his gentle - perhaps even fragile - personality also made him an easy target for those out to hurt him. It hurt Paul to know his son was being bullied. The guitar seemed to make him a bit more popular, he mused. No wonder he was playing that thing all hours of the day. Paul wished there was a way to make things easier for his only son.

Perhaps he and Linda would have to spend some time thinking of ways to increase his confidence, Paul thought as he switched off the light and closed the door behind him. If anyone could think of ways to feel people feel better, it was her.

As he crossed the landing, the sound of the latest pop hits blaring from the cassette deck in Stella's room demanded his attention. His intended goal would have to wait a little bit longer. After rapping a short riff on the door, he peeked his head in to see his daughter and her friend dance around the room, their hair and clothes done up just like Madonna. "Hello, ladies! Having fun?"

"Da-aad, what are you doing here?"

The annoyed cry tickled Paul's funny bone. "Lovely to see you too Stel," he guffawed, letting himself in and pulling his mortified daughter into a bear hug.

"Mercy!" she laughed, struggling to break free. "So, what did you say you were here for, dad?" It was clear the ginger-haired teenager wasn't going to suffer her old man longer than needed.

Paul dropped his playful antics and answered her question. "Would you mind turning down the music, Stel? Your brother is sleeping, and I think you would be wise to start wrapping this up too. Don't give me that look," he added, indicating the scowl on Stella's face. "You can stay up a bit longer, just keep the volume down and be in bed in an hour or so, alright?"

Not wanting to embarrass his 16 year-old further, he made for the door. "Oh, before I forget," he said, lingering in the door frame on his way out, "If you've got anything else on your wish list, you need to tell mum soon. She wants to go shopping for you and James over the weekend. Alright? G'night sweetheart, love you!"

Before he had the chance to move away from the bedroom door, he heard Stella's friend squeal excitedly. "Oh my goodness, your dad is so cute!" Paul couldn't help but shake his head. Two decades had passed since Beatlemania, and teenage girls still swooned over him - it was rather embarrassing, really. Not just for him, but undoubtedly for Stella too. When would the madness end? Why hadn't it ended yet anyway; if 46 wasn't old enough to stop being the cute one, what age would be?

Of course, he mused as he made his way towards the attic, it did help to be considered attractive, back in his heyday. It made hiding his relationship with John that much easier. After all: who would suspect two blokes who shagged every bird they could get their hands on of being queer for each other? None of the girls ever protested being kicked out as soon as the shag was over; they were far too glad to have lain a Beatle in the first place. Little did they know that the Beatles - two of them anyway - had this whole life together that nobody knew about.

Paul sighed as he looked around the attic. Much of his life was stored there, filed away in boxes and wardrobes, countless memories of a life that was almost too surreal to believe. The way they had risen to fame overnight, conquered the world, left their mark... Those things only happened on the silver screen, they didn't happen in real life to real people. Except they had, and he was living proof of it. And stowed away in all those boxes was the physical evidence of so many things he'd done.

Sat on an old, tattered footstool, Paul rummaged through some of the boxes. Everything he touched was a walk down memory lane; a reminder of the fantastic fable that was his life. He leafed through old notebooks, full of notes that for the most part didn't make much sense now; 20, in some cases 30 years after they had been written down. There were doodles, some of which he vaguely remembered drawing in the endless hours of sitting around idly, killing the time between shows, locked up in their hotel room for their own safety. And oh, the lyrics. So many pages of songs, some of which were recorded, but so many more never were. How was it even humanly possible to write so ridiculously much in such a short timespan?

And then there were the photos, which showed how they all had grown from lanky teenagers into young men, and eventually into grownups with moustaches and, eventually, families. Paul took his time grabbing photos at random and reliving the memories each of them contained. Each set of photos took him right back in time.

***

"Oh wall, full often hast thou heard - Paul, stop laughing!"

"S-sorry... can't... that voice... t-too funny..."

"If you think that's funny, you should see the costume."

"Go'ead, let's see it then."

"Not now, you nit. We need to rehearse first."

"What are you two on about?"

"Paul thinks me voice is funny, Ritchie."

"Does he? Let's hear it then."

"Oh wall, full often... What is it, George?"

"Can you go even lower?"

"Can try, if you stop interrupting. Oh wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, for parting my fair Pyramus and me! My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones."

"Very nice! Paul, that was yer cue, mate."

"Pull yerself together, son. Dressed rehearsal is in two hours."

"He can't do it, can he?"

"Doubt it. He's always been a shit actor. Five shillings says he'll fuck it up."

"Yer sure to win that one, so I'm not waging any money on it."

"Me neither, son. Sorry, Paul."

"I'm standing right here, y'know."

"So, are you taking the bet, then?"

"Are you daft? Of course not. Never pick a fight yer gonna lose, n'dat."

***

"Look at the size of that ash tray!"

"Forget the ash tray Geo; check out the size of that bifter!"

"Right. Pity it's not real, isn't it?"

"Pity it's not a reefer, more like."

"Aren't you stoned already?"

"No more than you. By the way Paul, have I told you how lovely you look in yer gum wrapper, luv?"

"What, this old thing? Just something I threw on, y'know."

"Oh, just get a room and get on with it, you two."

"What makes you think we haven't already?"

"As if!"

"George and John, please find Ringo and get dressed for the next scene. Paul, we can't use that last take, so we're going to do another one now. Please make sure you're properly covered up this time, alright?"

"Yeah Paul, one moon is quite enough, thank you."

"George, don't encour-... Christ Paul, nobody wants to see that!"

"Oh, I beg to differ...."

***

"Here, kitty kitty kitty!"

"Naff off, John."

"Careful now, or we'll have you neutered."

"Good idea, I'll hold 'im. Oh shit..."

"Oh, that's just great, George. Well done, son."

"What? It just came off, I didn't pull on it. Not hard, anyroad."

"What's tha- ... Is that my tail?"

"Possibly."

"Save me from these hoodlums, Rings!"

"There there, everything will be fine. John, get the nutcracker. I think he trusts me."

"Et tu, Ringo? Et tu?"

"Sorry mate, what'd you expect from a bear?"

***

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

"Take a wild guess."

"It's pink."

"So?"

"So we're going to have all these pictures taken, and you're wearing a fucking pink suit."

"Well, at least I'm not wearing striped bell bottoms."

"Fair enough. But fuck man, pink? I mean, it looks dead queer, son."

"As opposed to those frilly shirts you and Ritchie are wearing, you mean?"

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Nice suit, Paul. Love the colour!"

"Lovely shirt, John. Those frills are just fab!"

"George's trousers are still dead grotty, right?"

"Oh, fuck yes."

"What are you two talking about?"

"Oh, we were just saying how much we love your trousers, Geo."

***

Paul pulled up another box and as he opened it, his heart skipped a few beats before starting to thump rapidly. His hand trembled when he reached out to pick up his old bowler hat. He slowly twirled it around in his hands, before loosely placing it atop his head. His eyes fell in the stack of photos. He'd almost forgotten they took so many. There were pictures of them in Dunkirk, John below the Eiffel Tower, the two of them on a canal cruise boat, hamming it up in their gendarme capes, him reading the paper on the loo, John in bed... As Paul placed a few of the photos on the small pile of things he wanted to look through again, the bowler hat came tumbling off his head. He stared at it aimlessly until he saw something he never noticed before: a single strand of auburn hair, stuck to the lining of the hat. John's hair. It must have gotten stuck in there when they were nearly caught in the act on the train back from Paris.

Paris... John and he had been thick as thieves after their little getaway, and for a long time it seemed they would stay that close forever. No matter how frantic things got, playing the clubs seven days a week, getting their record contract and starting their new lives in London, touring the world and being chased by hordes of screaming fans... They had managed to find a way to deal with all that. Sure, there had been fights, but they had always worked it out - and boy, did they enjoy making up after a row. Things rarely got steamier than after a good quarrel, and Paul was quite sure the prospect of making up inspired more than a few fights. Acting all jealous over shagging random birds sure helped set them off. Mutual agreement or no, those meaningless flings more than once let loose the green-eyed monster in both of them. But when push came to shove, nobody could come between them. For a time, it seemed like nothing could ever weaken their bond.

When had they begun to fall apart? Things had been so good for so long, but what had changed? Brian's death? Drugs? Rishikesh? Yoko? Linda? Business? Paul didn't know, and in hindsight it didn't matter. The Beatles always had an expiration date, even though they weren't aware of it at the time. But that there would be a time when his relationship with John would be damaged beyond repair, that was the one thing Paul had not been prepared for. How on earth had they gone from being best friends and lovers to being caught up in such a spiteful feud? And why had it taken them nearly a decade to become friends again?

Paul remembered how strained those first few visits to Los Angeles and New York had been. Sure, they had been friendly enough, but the tension had been so tangible. For two blokes who'd been drawn towards each other like a pair of magnets from the day they met, they sure knew how to repel each other. And then, just as they finally managed to become comfortable around each other again, and working together was no longer a matter of 'if', but of 'when', it had all gone to hell. Someone had come along and ended their story for good. From that moment on, they were no longer two magnets drawn together; it was just Paul.

Suddenly Paul realised he was chewing his bottom lip, biting back tears and hugging himself for comfort but unable to find any until suddenly, someone grabbed his hand.

"Talk to me, babe," Linda urged. "You'll feel better, I promise."

"I miss John"

"I know," she muttered, kissing the top of his head. "But it's been eight years Paul, and I haven't seen you like this in a long time. There's more, isn't there? Something you're not telling me?"

"No..." Paul paused and swallowed hard. "Yes..."

"Please tell me."

"I can't. You'll think I'm a monster," he murmured.

Linda shook her head and sought his gaze. "I could never think that. Do you hear me? Never. Don't be afraid, you can confide in me."

Paul hesitated for a few moments, and then he started to speak. Hidden away in that dusty attic, surrounded by his wife's warm presence and all those boxes containing evidence of his unbelievable life, he revealed the secret he'd been carrying around for nearly thirty years. And Linda listened, only interrupting him for the occasional question. He finished by telling her about his dream, and how it brought back all the memories of the good times, as well as the pain of growing apart.

"I just wish we could have worked things out, Lin. I mean, really talked everything through, you know? There were still so many unresolved issues we left unsaid because we were both scared we'd fuck things up again. But we were getting there, y'know; we were even talking about maybe writing together again when..." Paul swallowed hard at the lump in his throat and fought against the flood of tears that were stinging behind his eyes. "...But now we never will, because that jerk took John away from me forever."

Suddenly, Linda was holding him close. "It's okay, I've got you," she said softly, cradling him in her arms and running her hands through his hair. "You can cry; it's allowed."

Paul felt as if the grief might crush him from within. It occurred to him that finally sharing his secret was a lot like opening Pandora's box, and now that he allowed one monster to escape, the rest simply wouldn't be held back. But, just like in the myth that bore such a frightening resemblance to what he was feeling, the release of all those ghouls also made room for hope. Curled up in Linda's arms, he slowly felt the overwhelming burden of his secrets lift off his shoulders. When he finally spoke again, a sliver of something light and warm was beginning to soothe his pain.

"He gave me one of his songs, back in '65 when things were still good between us. We wrote a lot of songs for each other, but we never used to give away the lyrics, y'know. We always sort of kept them, and we tossed a lot of them in the bin after recording them. Except for one"

"Do you still have it?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Can I see it?"

He nodded and pulled a piece of paper out of the nearest pile. With a deep sigh, Paul settled back in Linda's arms and held it up high enough for them both to be able to read the words that were scribbled down in John's familiar handwriting.

_For Paul_

_There are places I remember,_

_All my life, though some have changed._

_Some forever, not for better,_

_Some have gone, and some remain._

_All these places have their moments,_

_With lovers and friends I still can recall._

_Some are dead and some are living,_

_In my life, I've loved them all._

_But of all these friends and lovers,_

_There is no one compares with you._

_And these memories lose their meaning,_

_When I think of love as something new._

_Though I know I'll never lose affection_

_For people and things that went before._

_I know I'll often stop and think about them,_

_In my life, I love you more._

She gently took the lyric sheet from Paul's hands and let her long, slender fingers trace the words. "For Paul," she whispered. "I've always loved that song. And now that I know he wrote it for you..." Her smile warmed Paul's heart, "Well, that just makes it even more beautiful in my book."

"Are you saying you're okay with all this?"

"I suppose I am, yeah. Is that so difficult to believe?"

"I thought you'd be disgusted."

"How can anyone be disgusted by love?" She shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by everything she just heard. "You loved John way before I came along, and you'll love him until the day you die. And I love him too, you know. I think I may even love him more now that I know what he truly meant to you. Sure, I wish you'd told me sooner, but in a way, it isn't news to me."

"Hang on... You knew?"

"I guess, in a way. It's just a gut feeling I always had, though I never knew for sure. I mean, why would you and John be so incredibly upset with each other for so long if there wasn't a deeper meaning to it all? From where I was standing it looked more like a lovers' spat than just two friends falling out."

"You never said anything about it."

"No, because you're entitled to your secrets, just like I am to mine. Besides, what if I was wrong? So I just stayed out of it. I felt sad for you both, but I'd be lying if I said the idea didn't also intrigue me." Linda's mischievous wink reminded Paul of the glint John would often have in his eye. "So," she teased, "Got any juicy details you want to share?"

"Lin...!"

"I'm just yanking your chain, babe. Although..."

A chuckle forced itself from the back of Paul's throat at the sight of the suggestive way Linda waggled her eyebrows. "You're as bad as John, you know that?"

"Worse," she giggled. She buried Paul in a suffocating hug before picking something from the small pile to Paul's left: the photo of John asleep in Paris. "This is beautiful. You know what we should do? We ought to put this in a nice frame and hang it somewhere so you can look at it as often as you want."

"Seriously?"

"Of course. He's as much a part of this family as any of us and without him, you wouldn't be who you are today."

Paul allowed her to pull him to his feet and away from the half-unpacked boxes. "You really are extraordinary, you know that?"

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Have I ever told you what I was going to call my bass...?"

THE END


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